Knowledge and Promise
by otherhawk
Summary: Pre movie. He has no idea what's going on. But his life seems strange and dangerous. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing in the Ocean's 11 universe. Unfortunately for me.**

**A/N: Yes. This is another multichapter story. What? I just finished two. That means I have to start another one. Not totally sure that's how it works, actually. But hope you like it. **

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The first thing he knew was that he was lying down. And his head hurt. The rest – the world – was muggy confusion and darkness. There was something screaming in the corner of his consciousness, and for some reason he was frightened.

Gradually there was a little more. He was in a bed. A narrow, uncomfortable bed. It smelled of hospitals. He didn't know how he knew that, didn't know how to explain the knowledge. It was just there.

And then there was a noise over to his right and his eyes shot open instantly, and the daylight hit him like a solid wave of pain and the groan burst out of him and he screwed his eyes tight shut. The world could wait for him. His head _hurt _and staying absolutely still and trying not to think about anything seemed like the best plan.

Unfortunately the world had other ideas. "You're awake again!" a woman's voice announced, unnecessarily loudly for his ears. "I'll go get the doctor."

He opened one eye a fraction and was left with a hazy impression of a nurse's uniform leaving the room. That was okay. He hadn't cared much for the company anyway.

Left alone, he lay still. Took deep breaths. Gradually acclimatised himself to consciousness and light and life.

Eventually the nurse came back into the room, accompanied by an exceptionally bored looking man he was prepared to accept was a doctor. Mostly due to the stethoscope and lab coat. Clues. Definite clues.

"Good morning," he said politely.

The doctor didn't look up from his perusal of his notes. "It's afternoon, actually. You've been here for a few hours."

"Oh," he said awkwardly. Somehow, that was vaguely troubling. But the doctor didn't seem especially concerned. He cleared his throat. "What happened?"

Now the doctor did look up and studied him with a frown. "You don't remember? Your . . . " He glanced back down at the notes. " . . . cousin said you were playing football and there was an accident."

He didn't remember. Not in the slightest. And there was a larger truth beneath that, a truth that screamed on the edges of his awareness, louder and louder. "Yeah," he said to the doctor, remembering not to nod with an effort. "I remember now. Hell of a tackle." He didn't understand what he was doing. Didn't understand why he didn't just say that he didn't remember.

"Right," the doctor agreed, absent and indifferent. "Anyway, you sustained a blow to the head and a moderate concussion resulted." Immediately his fingers flew to the left side of his head and he winced as they encountered gauze and pain. "You've only been conscious for brief periods since you were brought in."

He didn't remember. And this time the lie didn't rise to his lips and obviously he wasn't quite as quick to cover his confusion because the doctor made an attempt to look reassuring. "Don't worry if you don't remember. That's relatively normal after brain trauma."

Uh huh. Reassuring. Right.

"One thing," the doctor added, looking down at his notes again. "Your cousin was in such a hurry to get back to the game that he forgot to give us your name and I'm afraid you didn't have any ID on you, so if you wouldn't mind . . . ?"

The truth screamed louder than ever. Too loud to ignore.

He didn't know.

He didn't know his name.

There was nothing in his head, no name, no identity, no _him._ He had no idea who he was and it was terrifying.

"John Rudd," he lied instantly, effortlessly, inexplicably. He could scream at himself. Why was he lying? He should be telling them, should be letting them help him, because, safe to say, he was in real trouble here. But just the idea made him feel vulnerable and terrified, and he just _couldn't._ No. No, lie for now and try and figure this thing out.

"Thank you, Mr Rudd," the doctor said, writing it down. He didn't seem to see anything amiss. Which was good. "And your date of birth?"

Fuck. Twenty? Forty? _Sixty_? He forced himself to smile at the nurse, who unexpectedly blushed. Probably not sixty then. "Well, how old would _you _say I am?" he asked, and hoped it sounded like flirt rather than desperation.

"Twenty seven?" she guessed, with a slight smile and a sideways glance towards the less-than-amused-looking doctor.

Right. Right. Safe to say she would be flattering him. So . . . "Close," he said. "Thirtieth December 1962." Inside he frowned. He knew today's date. Least he thought he did. And he didn't know how he knew that. Didn't know where the edges of what he'd lost were. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest. Could taste his fear.

The nurse blinked. "You don't look thirty," she said surprised.

Oh. Maybe she wasn't the flattering type. "You should see the portrait I keep in the attic," he said with a grin, and she looked blank. This was stupid. This lie was really, really, stupid and he didn't know how to stop. Seemed as though he was committed now.

"And your street address, Mr Rudd?"

He didn't even know which state he was in. Somewhere in the Midwest, judging by the accents, but that was all he had. "Well," he temporised. "I'm new in town. As a matter of fact, I only got in yesterday. Staying with my cousin and I'm not sure of the street address." The doctor frowned and he carried on hurriedly. "It's apartment six, number 1014, and its the long street downtown, next to the bus station."

"Fifteenth Street?" the nurse suggested, and really, he could easily kiss her.

"Yes!" he said, excitedly. "That was it!"

"Apartment 6, 1014, Fifteenth Street, St Louis," the doctor nodded, scribbling it all down. "Thank you, Mr Rudd, that' s all the administrative details we need to get for the moment. Now, I just need to give you an examination, if that's all right?"

"Of course," he agreed, affably. He was pretty sure they couldn't tell what was wrong just by looking. He was pretty sure he was safe.

The examination was basic and perfunctory, and he suffered through it with as much grace as he could muster.

"Okay," the doctor said when he was done. "Everything seems satisfactory, but I'd like to keep you in overnight, just for observation."

"No," he said, firmly and with a smile.

The doctor blinked. "I really would recommend - "

He didn't want to stay here. Not in the slightest. " - no," he repeated. "I'd like to sign myself out. I do have that right, don't I?"

"Well, yes," the doctor agreed. "But you'll need to sign a form to say that you understand that this is against medical advice."

He grinned. "Don't worry," he told the doctor seriously. "If I find myself dying, I'll be sure to let everyone know it wasn't your fault."

The doctor glared at him.

* * *

The forms were duly fetched and so were his clothes. He stared at them for a long time. He didn't recognise the suit, and in some way, that was every bit as frightening as the bloodstain on the collar of the shirt. But more than that, it was a _suit_. No one played football in a suit. And there were just clothes; no wallet, no money, no ID, no keys, nothing. His pockets had been emptied. And then there was his mysterious cousin who had left without giving any personal details. No. This story stank to hell. Instinctively he knew he was right to be getting out of here. He was better on his own.

Standing up made his head spin, walking into the bathroom and getting dressed and cleaned up left him shaking and desperate to crawl back into bed and stay there for a few years. But that wasn't the truly troubling thing. The truly troubling thing was the bathroom mirror. He avoided it for a long time. Hoping against hope that he could look into it and see _himself _and know exactly who and what that meant.

His hands gripped the edges of the sink tightly. He could only hope he was a man of courage. He raised his head and looked.

Dark hair and dark, expressive eyes. A tan that suggested he was no stranger to warm climates. A mouth that looked like it smiled easily and often. A face that might be that of any stranger.

Still. Handsome, he thought. Definitely handsome. And that was something. Would probably feel worse to look at yourself in the mirror for the first time and find yourself thinking you were an ugly bastard. Probably he could live with this face. Probably he didn't have a choice.

He had no idea who he was. He had no idea who he _was_ and he was terrified.

* * *

He chose to escape before the nurse got back with the wheelchair. Hospital policy was, apparently, that no one walked out on their own two feet, but he'd jumped through their hoops, signed John Rudd's name to a variety of documents, he'd accepted the pills and the leaflets on what to do if he found himself experiencing excess dizziness, nausea, blurred vision or death, and now he was absolutely, one hundred percent, ready to leave.

Still, he was careful when he stepped out of the room. Looked both ways, searching for nurses and searching for wheelchairs. Which was why he saw the six large men standing at the nurse's station, and the nurse who was eagerly pointing them towards his room. Towards him. And he saw the bulge at the back of their jackets, and he knew what that meant. Six, large, armed men. Looking for him.

Fear-driven instinct told him to step back inside the room, and that was stupid, because that was exactly where they were going to be looking in the next couple of minutes, and there was no other way out of that room. Instead he stepped out into the corridor, and he ignored the shouts, and he ignored the sound of feet running towards him, and he scanned the area and he made a dive for the door marked 'Emergency Exit'. He slammed it behind him, and the catch on it was one of the old ones, and they didn't make them like that any more because they were really easy to jam, all he needed to do was hit it _there_ like _that _and it would hold them up for at least a couple of minutes, and then he was running down the concrete stairs as fast as he could, and down into fresh air and daylight, and the crowd of smokers at the entrance. He ducked past them, pointedly going one way and then doubled back behind the building as soon as he could and followed the signs out of the hospital as quickly as possible.

He was out of breath, and his head hurt and there were people looking for him with guns, and he didn't know who he was. He needed a coffee. Actually, he needed a drink, but he had a feeling that coffee was safest at the moment.

There was a diner a couple of blocks away that felt far enough to be safe. He was inside and at the corner before he realised that he had no money. The man eyed him suspiciously and he put the pain and confusion onto his face and swayed minutely for good measure. "I'm sorry, could I . . .could I borrow a dime for the phone? I just got mugged and I want to call my brother. Tell him to come pick me up."

The man's eyes widened and there was sympathy in his eyes, and he glanced at the bandage round his head and hastily reached into his pocket and pushed a handful of change across the counter. "Here. Phone's in the back. You sure you don't want to call the police? Or an ambulance?"

"Nah, I'm just . . . just had a shock, you know? I was just coming out of the hospital and they jumped me. Can you believe that?" he smiled, bravely.

The man shook his head. "What's the world coming to? Here, I'll get you a coffee while you're on the phone, okay?"

He hesitated. "Uh, they got my wallet," he explained apologetically, and the man waved him off immediately.

"Nah, it's on the house. After the day you've had? I'll get you a sandwich too. And a donut. Sugar, that's what you need."

Sugar. Yeah. That sounded . . . yeah. He walked slowly into the back and held a conversation with the time-and-date service for a long couple of minutes. Then he took his coffee and his food, thanked the man for his sympathy, and went and sat at the table with the best view of the door and thought.

What the hell was he doing? What the hell was he going to do?

He had no idea who he was, but whoever he was had an instinct to lie, a knack for making up stories, an ability to spot when men were carrying guns and the knowledge to disable doors.

None of that was normal.

Really, he could only hope he was a locksmith who watched a lot of action movies and had an overactive imagination.

He sighed. Not likely. What was he supposed to do? There were men with guns looking for him. He should go to the police. Except he couldn't be sure that he hadn't done anything wrong.

Maybe what he needed to do was give up and start a new life in Venezuela. Certainly he didn't have any practical ideas.

Finishing as much of his food as he could manage, he pushed the plate aside and put his hand up to massage his head. It hurt and he was so fucking tired. So tired and so alone and so confused. Not that he had anything to compare it to, but he seriously doubted that this was a good day.

Managing a smile and a nod to the worried-looking man behind the counter, he staggered out into the street. What he needed now was a bed. And he didn't know how he was going to get that, but there were motels and surely, surely he could think of something. Surely.

And then one of the men from the hospital came round the corner, and he was seen, and the man drew his gun and people started screaming, and he was running before he even understood, and he dived towards the street, and next to him a car window exploded.

He was being shot at. He didn't know who he was and he was sore and terrified and exhausted and he was being shot at and _what the fuck was this all about_?

A black car skidded to a halt in front of him and the passenger door was open. "Get in," a voice told him.

Wasn't quite "Come with me if you want to live," but he was terrified and bewildered and alone and still there were screams behind him, and he knew the shooter was there somewhere.

"Now!" the voice ordered and blindly, he obeyed.

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**Okay. Hope that intrigued someone? Anyone? **


	2. Chapter 2

**Second chapter! And warning for violence and pain. Not as bad as . . . well, not as bad as a lot of things. But still. You have been warned.**

* * *

He slid onto the backseat of the car, and the door slammed behind him, and the car sped off with a screech and the man next to him smiled from behind his gun. "Well, that was easy."

Fuck. Obviously this hadn't been such a good idea.

He swallowed, looking at the barrel of the gun, inches from his face. "Look, I don't know what this is about, but I think maybe you have the wrong person," he said and to his ears it sounded surprisingly calm and reasonable.

Obviously he was in a minority. The driver laughed and the man in the backseat scowled and in a quick movement reversed his gun and struck him across the face and the impact reverberated through his headache and the edges of the world were fuzzy.

The man in the front passenger seat twisted round to look at them and his voice was annoyed. "Fuck's sake, Willy, don't hit him as hard as you did last time. We got to take him back to the hospital again, the boss'll be pissed."

Oh. So these were the bastards he had to thank for his headache. Terrific.

"Right," Willy leered. "He's _delicate._"

"Like fine China," he agreed lightly.

Willy made to hit him again and the guy in the front seat coughed loudly. "You wanna explain to the boss?"

"Fuck, Bill, you know what this fucker's done?" Willy asked in a whine of frustration.

He couldn't help but hope they were going to tell him.

The driver coughed. "Couple of Dawson's guys in the road ahead of us," he said.

Willy leaned forward eagerly. "Run them down," he ordered.

Bill disagreed. "Nah, we don't want to kick this whole thing off before the boss is ready."

He looked forwards, out of the windscreen, and, as the car sped past them, he recognised the men from the hospital, and they had their guns drawn, had their guns pointed at the car, and that wasn't right, that couldn't be right, surely, because that meant . . . That meant that there were two separate groups of armed assholes after him. And the first group had been shooting and obviously weren't too anxious about him being alive, and these guys had, well, kidnapped him, and he didn't know what any of it _meant_.

From what he'd seen so far, he hated his life.

Bill looked back at him. "Your people don't seem too happy to see you. Seems like they want you dead. You double cross Dawson?"

_His_ people? He had people? And they wanted him dead?

He shook his head and kept his mouth shut.

Willy grinned unpleasantly at him. "Don't worry," he promised. "Soon you'll be begging us to let you tell us everything you know."

Huh. Unfortunately that wouldn't take very long at all.

* * *

After ten minutes or so of driving, the car pulled into a building and Bill and Willy hauled him out into the middle of what looked to be a chop shop. There were a variety of cars in a variety of stages of disassembly, and piles of tools. He looked round, vaguely uncomfortable.

Bill noticed him looking. "What? Did you think we'd take you back to the boss's office?"

"Mackenzie likes some things well under the radar," Willy added with a toothy grin.

"That's Mr Mackenzie to you, Willy," Bill said with a scowl.

Willy rolled his eyes and wheeled round to face Bill, and he recognised the opportunity, and he was never going to let that slip by, and he started running towards the door and he was almost there, could almost taste freedom, when the driver stepped out and punched him hard in the stomach, and even as he doubled over, he was being dragged back.

"Thanks, Harry," Willy said.

Through the pain he realised something. He knew all their names now. He knew their faces.

They weren't planning on letting him go.

"That's how you do it," Harry explained. "Fucker tries to run, you don't hit him on the head. Cos then you need to wait for him to wake up."

"And before you know it, he's run away from the hospital," Bill added, glaring at Willy.

Willy held his hands up in the air. "Woah! Water under the bridge. We got him here now. And he's going to tell us everything."

Harry deposited him on a chair with a grunt, and Willy and Bill stepped forwards with a length of rope and his arms and legs were bound to the metal frame. As surreptitiously as he could, he tested the knots and there was no give there, nothing to be done.

They stepped back and looked at him. "Scared yet?" Willy taunted.

Yes. God, yes. None of this made sense. It was like being trapped in a movie or a bad dream and he just wanted to go _home_ . . . did he even have a home? Did he have a family? Was anyone even looking for him? Did anyone even care?

"Nah," he lied immediately. "What are you planning on doing? Singing to me? Taking me to _your_ dentist?"

Willy's face darkened and he managed to brace himself before the punch. Still hurt though and again the deeper pain washed through his skull and he bit his lip and closed his eyes and tried to master it.

When he opened his eyes again Willy had vanished and Bill was looking at him intently. Harry was leaning against the shell of a car looking bored.

Bill stepped forwards and wrenched his head up. "Enough fucking around. Where is it?"

"Where's what?" he managed to ask. He wondered if he'd get any points for saying 'It's safe.' Oh. He really wished he hadn't thought of that. Really wished he hadn't mentioned the dentist.

The hand on his jaw tightened and it hurt. "You want to play it this way? Mr Mackenzie is _very upset_. And Dawson doesn't seem in a hurry to protect his thief. In case you haven't noticed, he's trying to kill you. Tell us where the list is and maybe we can work something out. Maybe you can come work for our side."

The list. The list? It meant nothing to him. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said truthfully.

Bill sighed and, unsurprisingly, seemed completely unsatisfied. He nodded to something past him, and even as he twisted round to look, Willy stepped up, carrying . . . carrying . . . he swallowed hard. Oh, God. Please. No.

"You like it?" Willy asked, brandishing the white tip of the soldering iron in his face, and he could feel the heat against his cheek, against his eye, and he leaned away from it as best he could. "Top temperature on this baby is three hundred and fifty degrees, can you believe that?"

He could _feel _that. "Use it to mend your Barbie dolls?"

Willy smirked and leaned over and ripped his shirt open and slowly, slowly, he moved the tip of it closer to his chest and this had gone far enough, this couldn't be happening, and he had to . . . "Wait!" he shouted urgently and, with a disappointed expression, Willy moved back.

Bill stepped forwards. "Yes? Ready to tell us?"

"I don't know!" he said desperately and Willy grinned and eagerly started towards him again. He kept talking. "I really don't, I swear! The first thing I remember was waking up in the hospital this afternoon. I don't know anything about any list, or Mackenzie or Dawson or any of this."

In the background Harry laughed. Bill shook his head. "That's the best you can come up with?" He made a gesture and Willy smirked and this time nothing was going to stop him.

For a second he didn't feel it. For a second he didn't think it was going to be so bad. Then it hit him. Then he screamed and didn't stop.

The pain was a living thing and it consumed him. For the eternity of seconds, he could feel the fire burning through his skin, his flesh, layer by layer by layer, and he could smell the burning, like cooked meat, like a barbecue on a summers day, and it hurt, and he hurt, and he was screaming, and somewhere, somewhere above him, Willy was laughing with uninhibited glee, and he was screaming and screaming and the fire burned and the pain was everything.

Willy vanished and the pain died down and Bill was in his face. "Where is the list?"

" . .. list?" he mumbled.

"You stole it from Mr Mackenzie's office and you didn't have it when we picked you up at the station. What did you do with it?"

"I don't know," he answered, lifting his head, looking the man in the eyes. "I don't know, I woke up in the hospital and - "

A gesture, a heartbeat, and Willy was there again and then the pain was there again and he was _screaming . . . _

His head hung low and each breath was a sob.

"Had enough?" Bill asked, almost gently.

Yes. Oh, god, yes. "I don't know what you want to know," he said, and his voice was thick with pain and hoarse with screaming. "I don't remember anything. Don't remember my name. I don't know my _name._"

The fire came again. The pain came again. He convulsed in the chair, every muscle, every tendon stretched to breaking point, and he screamed over and over, desperate to be heard, understood, believed. "I don't know! I don't remember! Don't remember!" He wanted it to stop. He wanted it all to stop and almost, almost he didn't care how it ended.

There was a later and he was slumped and shaking, only the ropes keeping him in place. He hurt. He hurt so much. He hurt so much and he was never going to get out of this, and he was going to die here _(alone)_ and they were going to kill him and he _wished_ . . . something. Almost, there'd been something. But there was nothing, and he was alone, and he _hurt._

Vaguely he knew that Bill and Willy and Harry were standing over to his left. Were talking in low voices, apparently believing he couldn't hear.

"I think he's telling the truth," Bill's voice.

"He can't be." That was Willy.

"You hear about these things thought, don't you? There's even a word for it." And Harry.

"Amnesia." Bill again.

"Yeah. That. From being hit on the head too hard."

There was a pause.

"Oh, come on! It's not my fault!" Willy sounded angry. And that couldn't be good. For him.

"We're gonna need to call someone," Bill said at last.

He'd been hauled off the chair, dragged into a little office off the main floor and left there, his hands tied tightly behind his back.

And really, he should have concentrated on trying to find a way out, trying to escape, but when they'd shoved him inside, he'd stumbled and fallen, and it had been all he could do to get himself sitting against the wall. His whole body ached, and his head was pounding, and he could probably sleep for a hundred years without any real difficulty.

His shirt was still open and he'd made himself look. His chest looked about how it felt. Raw and red and blistered and weeping. He felt sick just looking. Felt sick thinking about what they'd done. And he wondered what they were going to do now? Seemed as though they'd had to send out for more instructions. They must be low level whatevers. Somehow, he couldn't think that things were about to get any better for him. They wanted to know what was going on. And so did he.

Near as he could figure it, he worked for someone named Dawson and he'd stolen something – some list – from someone named Mackenzie. Then he'd hidden it, and Bill, Willy and Harry had caught him, had tried to make him tell them where and, somewhere along the line, had hit him hard enough to knock him out and had got scared and dragged him to the hospital. He had a better idea of what happened from there. He woke up, minus his memories, Dawson's people came to kill him, for reasons unknown, and Mackenzie's people caught him again. Right. That seemed about it.

Oh, that was _insane_.

He sighed and struggled to his feet. Right. Right. First thing he had to do was to find something to cut these ropes with. He was in an office; maybe there were some scissors somewhere. Letter opener. Something.

A noise came from outside and he froze. Raised voices. There was a little glass window over the desk and, awkwardly, he scrambled onto it and looked down onto the chop shop floor. Harry and Willy were dragging a blond man inside the building. Taking him towards the office. Somehow they didn't seem to be being as rough as they had been with him. Huh. Preferential treatment. Harry and the blond looked up and saw him watching at the same moment and Harry glared and the blond winked. Hastily, he ducked out of sight and waited. They seemed to be heading his way, and a moment or two later, the door crashed open and the blond was pushed inside.

He looked round and the blond smiled at him. "Thank God," he said warmly. "You all right?"

"Yeah," he said suspiciously. "You know me?"

The blond laughed. "Funny."

He didn't smile and after a second the blond frowned at him. "What's wrong?"

"I don't remember anything before today," he admitted, anxious for any clue. If this man knew him . . . "Not who I am, not what I do, not anything."

"You're kidding, right?" the blond asked.

He shook his head silently.

"Fuck." The blond exhaled slowly and ran a hand through his hair. "That's awkward."

"Yeah," he agreed and suddenly realised something. "Hey, your hands aren't tied!"

The blond blinked. "No. Guess they forgot."

"You mind?" he asked and for a second it seemed as if the blond hesitated.

"Of course not," he said finally, and he stepped forwards and got started on the ropes.

"So who am I?" he asked, as the blond worked. "You know me, right?"

"Yeah," the blond agreed. "We're friends. We work together. For Dawson. You can trust me."

He nodded. "So what's my name?" he asked, anxiety colouring his voice.

There was a pause as the blond untied what must have been a particularly tight knot. "Harry Smith," he said at last.

Harry Smith. It meant nothing to him. Nothing at all. "Harry?" he tried out. "I'm Harry Smith." He shrugged. No. Definitely nothing.

"That's right," the blond told him approvingly. "And I'm Steven Parker. Your best friend."

Okay. That was good to know. "Nice to meet you," he said with a grin, as his hands were finally freed. He rubbed at his wrists thoughtfully. Far from the most pain he was feeling right now, but it was what they always did in the movies.

Steven smiled back at him. "Likewise."

"Now," he added. "How're we going to get out of here?"

Steven shrugged. "The others will come for us. They're not going to leave any of our people being held by Mackenzie's lot. Not at a time like this."

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Turf war," Steven explained shortly. "And whoever's got the list is going to win."

"They said I stole a list," he said slowly.

"Yeah," Steven nodded. "Don't suppose you happen to remember what you did with it?" he added casually.

He shook his head helplessly. "First thing I remember is a loud nurse."

Steven looked at him for a long, long time. "Right," he said at last. Then he stood up and banged loudly on the door. "Open up!" he yelled.

"What are you doing?" he asked desperately. It couldn't be. Couldn't . . .

He was ignored and then the door opened and Bill stood there, looking at Steven deferentially, while Harry stood just to his right, pointing a gun inside the room. At_ him_.

"He's telling the truth," Steven told Bill. "He doesn't remember a thing. You've really fucked up this time. We're going to need to call Mr Mackenzie."

"Steven . . . " he tried to say as the only thing he'd found to anchor himself on twisted and faded away. He'd trusted. For a moment there, he'd trusted and it had been ripped away.

Steven turned round and smiled unpleasantly at him. "Shut up, _Harry." _

He blinked. "Harry's not my name?" he asked, hating the desperation, the need in his voice.

"Might be." Steven shrugged indifferently. "I wouldn't know. And I don't give a fuck. Mr Mackenzie will decide what to do with you."

They left him then, and the door closed and locked behind them, and he could hear the laughter echoing as they walked away.

He slumped to the floor heavily and sat for a long time, struggling not to cry. After a time he realised that he was staring at a paperclip embedded in the carpet, and he found himself staring between it and the lock on the door and the inexplicable knowledge sparked within him.

He could escape, or at least try. And maybe he had nothing to escape to, but it had to be better than staying here, hurt and alone and afraid and _betrayed_.

He could escape. He could run and next time he'd know better.

* * *

**Thanks for reading, please let me know what you think. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Three chapters in three days. Huh. Look. It's called momentum and it'll last up to the point where it doesn't. Sorry.**

* * *

It took him a couple of tries to prise the paperclip free of the carpet and a couple more to stumble to his feet again.

Right. Escape. That was the plan. And he had to think ahead; it was no use just picking the lock and leaving if he was just going to get caught again immediately. Okay. Last things first; he had to be able to walk through the streets without attracting too much attention. With an effort he managed to get his shirt closed enough to hide the state of his chest, and he did his best to ignore the agony of cloth on raw flesh. He frowned down at himself. The shirt remained bloodstained and buttons were missing and he had a feeling that, really, he looked like he'd just been kidnapped and tortured. Not a good look to present to the world.

He looked round thoughtfully; there was a coat hanging on the back of the door. Perfect. Well, almost perfect, when he pulled it on he discovered that it was far too big for him. Must belong to a linebacker. Or Willy. Still, it should be enough to hide the worst. Too bad it wouldn't be enough to disguise him completely. The bandage on his head was pretty recognisable, and he didn't particularly want to take it off until he could see what lay underneath. Somehow he thought an open head wound might attract more attention than he was currently comfortable with. Besides, by the feel of things, his face was bruising up nicely, which meant he was going to be noticed and he was going to be remembered. Best thing he could do would be to keep his head down and do his best not to be spotted in the first place, at least until he got to . . . until he got to . . . safety? Where the hell was safe? Where was he escaping to?

Well, the first he needed was rest. And that meant a bed, for preference. Motel. Which meant money.

Huh. He wondered . . .

A quick search of the desk drawers revealed a half bottle of scotch, a calendar full of naked women doing interesting things with vegetables and a petty cash box with about a hundred dollars inside. He pocketed the booze and the cash. The porn he left where it was. Now that he had some money, he'd be perfectly willing to bet it all on the fact that he wasn't _that _hard up.

Now came the difficult bit. He clambered onto the desk again and gingerly pulled himself up to the window so he could just see out into the chop shop. Scanning the room anxiously, it still took him a moment to actually see them; they were away over to the side. Oh. Looked like Steven wasn't happy with the three stooges. He couldn't hear the words, but he'd say they were being yelled at. More to the point, they were distracted and all the way over there, and he thought – he hoped – that they wouldn't be able to see either door from where they were standing.

Had to be worth a try. And it was now or never.

He climbed down, ran to the office door and carefully began to pick the lock. Took longer than it should have; his hands were shaking with pain and fatigue . . . _took longer than it should have? _Oh, it was one thing to know that, technically, it was possible to pick a lock with a paperclip. That was common enough knowledge, probably everyone knew that. But to actually know how long it should take him personally . . . fuck. He had to face facts; it was looking more and more likely that he was one of the bad guys.

The realisation made the click of the lock turning over and the sight of the door swinging open a hollow victory.

Still, he silently crept out into the shop floor and, as quietly as he could, shut the door behind him. Ideally, he wanted it to be a few hours before they even knew he was gone. Ideally. Not something he was going to count on. The sound of shouting came from round the corner, and he snuck in the opposite direction as fast as he could.

"_You're a bunch of useless, fucking assholes! You know what we've got riding on this?" _

He practically ran – admittedly on tiptoes – to the first car, and he ducked down behind it and concentrated on breathing nice and slowly. The door was just over there. Not too far at all, really. Just because it _looked_ a good couple of miles away didn't mean it was. That was just the terror talking. He could make it. As long as they stayed away, stayed shouting, he could make it.

"_You know what I had to go through to get that list in the first place? Then you go and let some thieving bastard of Dawson's forget where he put it? Oh, I swear, if Mr Mackenzie doesn't kill you, I might just do it myself." _

He was okay. He was okay, but he had to go, now. He ran.

"_Stupid bastards!"_

Miracle of miracles, the door was unlocked, and he stumbled through it quickly, into the fresh air, into freedom and the normal world, the real world, and as fast as he could, he headed for the sound of traffic, sticking close to the edge of buildings, keeping his head down, avoiding eye contact.

He'd be fine. Chances were, as long as he didn't look like he wanted help, no one would offer to help him. And that was what was needed here, he needed to be on his own. He was the only one he could trust, and besides . . . he swallowed hard. Besides, he was the bad guy. Fuck knew what trouble associating with him could bring. And maybe he'd changed from whoever he'd been that morning, but he didn't _want_ that. Didn't want anyone hurt because of him.

Not constantly glancing over his shoulder took an effort, but after a while he figured out – or maybe remembered – a way of surreptitiously glancing in the windows he passed, and the reflections gave him fragmentary three hundred and sixty degree vision. Also gave him a headache, but that just seemed to be part of his existence. Put up or shut up, and always, always, it was both.

At any rate, didn't seem as though anyone was following him. Maybe his luck had changed. For the moment.

Eventually he found himself on a main road, and he just couldn't go any further. Slumping onto a bench at a bus stop was the best he could do, and he was aware of the curious looks he was getting. There were a dozen people here who, if Mackenzie's people asked, would be able to say exactly where they'd last seen him. And that was bad, that was really, really bad, and still, when the old lady next to him quietly offered him her water bottle, he could feel the tears springing to his eyes.

"Thank you," he said hoarsely and he took a long and grateful drink. "Oh, thank you."

She patted his knee gently. "There, there son. It'll be all right. You'll see."

He nodded tightly and bit his lip and his head dropped into his hands and the trembling started and she didn't say anything else, just sat and rubbed his shoulder, and it suddenly occurred to him that really, this was the first act of kindness he'd ever known. That didn't help.

"That's the bus, son," she said after a time, and he stood up numbly and followed her on.

The driver eyed him suspiciously. Understandable really, God knew what he looked like. Something that might not survive the journey, probably. "Where to?" he was asked.

Anywhere. "End of the line," he mumbled and pushed a handful of change over.

The old lady looked at him expectantly and he sat next to her. Easier not to argue and for twenty minutes they sat in silence and he could feel her looking at him. "I'm Enid," she said eventually. "Enid Hart."

The question was implied, and he shook his head. "I don't know!" he whispered.

She nodded and didn't look as surprised as she should. "You look like my Alfred did when he came home," she told him and the sadness sparkled in her eyes. "I've got a comfortable sofa. If you've got nowhere else to go."

He shook his head. "You shouldn't," he said. "You don't know anything about me."

She smiled at him for a second and stared out the window. "My Alfred's out there somewhere. I can only hope that someone's being kind to him."

There was a lump in his throat. "I'm sorry," he said. "Please. Please don't ask me."

"There, there, son," she whispered, looking back at him, and her hand was comforting on his knee. "There, there. It's going to be all right."

It wasn't. And his tears fell silently.

* * *

The bus came to the end of the line, and Enid insisted on writing her address down for him, and he could see the plea, the need in her eyes, and, in some strange way, he hated himself for not letting her help him. But she'd been nice to him, kind to him, and she didn't deserve the trouble he represented. Didn't deserve to understand that he wasn't the kind of man she thought he was.

He staggered onto another bus, paid another handful of money, and this time no one spoke to him, and slowly he got further and further away from the people who were looking for him.

This time at the end of the line, he stumbled into a taxi. The driver's English wasn't up to much, but somehow, between them, they managed to get some sort of communication going, and soon he found himself, exhausted, dizzy, hurting and drenched in sweat, wobbling up to the desk at a cheap-looking motel.

"Room," he managed to say and in response to the guy's look, he produced a couple of notes. "For tonight,"

"Yeah," the man grunted and looking less interested would have been tricky. "Name?"

"Alfred Hart," he said without conscious thought.

The man nodded and scrawled it down in the book. "Number six," he said, handing the key over.

The walk from the desk to the room was further than he could fully imagine. Somehow, this place was built to a different scale, and the walls swayed in the breeze.

The door opened. Somehow, the door opened, and he _just _managed to get it closed and locked behind him before he fell forwards onto the bed and warm darkness.

_It was Christmas and they were far from home, lying on a roofgarden staring up at unfamiliar stars that weren't visible anyway. _

_He turned, smiling, but the man next to him was blurry and indistinct, but he should know him, he should . . . Steven? And the features came into focus. Steven. His friend. He knew that. He'd always known that. _

"_Not how I wanted to spend Christmas," he complained, knowing it was the fifth time that evening. _

_Steven took the candy cane out of his mouth and grinned. "Well, where do you want to be?" _

_He considered. "Somewhere with snow and people singing. Somewhere with fir trees and decorations. Someplace we can sit with a drink and watch Jimmy Stewart."_

"_Hot chocolate and mulled wine and stollen," Steven suggested dreamily. _

"_Stollen?" He raised an eyebrow. "That the stuff with the marzipan?"_

"_Yeah," Steven agreed. _

"_You're a sick, sick man," he said, shaking his head seriously. Steven smiled and poured another couple of glasses of wine. "I wish . . . " he began, staring up at the brightest star they were pretending was there. "I wish . . ." he trailed off._

"_What?" Steven asked, after a moment._

_Nothing. He was happy, and he turned his head and the thought hung between them, and Steven smiled at him, warmth in his eyes. _

"_Still," he sighed. "Snow." _

_Steven grinned and reached into his pocket and threw his hand in the air, and suddenly the air was alive with little, delicate paper snowflakes. Wonderingly, he caught a handful._

"_Are they really all different?" he asked, in amazement, at the detail at the thought, at the everything._

"_Wouldn't be snowflakes if they weren't," Steven told him gravely. Somewhere below them a clock chimed. "Happy Christmas."_

"_Happy Christmas," he answered, his eyes still on the snowflakes, caught in the warm summer breeze. If they were cold, it'd be just like the real thing._

_He yelped as something cold went down the back of his neck. An ice cube. "Oh, you bastard," he complained, wiggling frantically, and Steven was doubled over with laughter, and then suddenly Steven looked up, and all the humour, all the warmth and love had left his eyes, and he was looking at something over his shoulder, grinning at something, and he turned, and Willy was standing there with his soldering iron, and the snowflakes were on fire, just little clumps of paper, blackening, curling at the edges, and they were burning and so was he, and Steven was laughing and the pain was everywhere, and someone was at the door . . . _

Someone was at the door and he woke up in an instant. There was a noise at the lock, not a key, someone was picking it, and they were trying to get in his room, and they'd found him, and they were going to hurt him again, and he didn't even remember if there was a window in here, hadn't really seen anything other than the bed. Fuck. Stupid.

The only thing to do, the only thing he _could_ do was lie still and wait, keep his eyes closed and his breathing even and hope for an opportunity.

The door creaked open and a man stepped inside the room and he had to hide his wince as the light was turned on. Sounded like there was only one of them. That was good. Maybe he could do something. Maybe. If he thought he was asleep, if he thought he wasn't a threat, maybe he could fight, maybe he could run.

"I know you're awake," the man said quietly, and he couldn't possibly know. There was no way he could know. He stayed perfectly still and prayed the man was bluffing.

The man sighed and took a step towards him, walking up to the bed, and he had to try and hide the tension, the fear. Had to control the trembling, keep it all locked inside.

There was a pause, and he knew the man was staring at him, could almost feel the moment when the man stopped breathing. "Fuck. Oh, _fuck_." The words were a low, breathy tremble, full of rage and helplessness and fear, and other things, many, many other things that he didn't understand.

And he wasn't going to try, he needed to escape, before this man dragged him back to Mackenzie or Dawson, before he could hurt, kill, betray.

His eyes snapped open and he launched himself upwards, swinging wildly, and dimly he registered blond hair and an expression of confusion, and then he was punching as hard as he could, and he took pleasure in the cry of pain and shock, and the the man was falling backwards, blood at his mouth, and _he_ was running for the door and freedom and safety.

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed.**


	4. Chapter 4

The door handle was almost in his grasp when a hand closed tightly around his ankle and in an instant he found himself falling forwards, helpless to save himself, and the impact with the floor sent fresh waves of agony reverberating through his skull.

He lay still. He had to get up, had to _escape_, but he just couldn't move and the world swam sickeningly in front of his eyes.

"Fuck," a voice said, and he was surprised to realise it wasn't him. Well, the guy was probably worrying that he'd killed him. Odds on that'd be a bit tricky to explain to his boss. The thought was almost amusing, and then there were hands around his shoulders, his chest and he was being picked up and that wasn't in the slightest bit amusing, and visions swam in front of his eyes, being thrown into the back of a van and driven back to Willy and the soldering iron and pain. "I've got you," the man told him, and really the guy _needed _to work on sounding sinister. If he didn't know better he'd be feeling comforted, not intimidated.

To his surprise the man took him over to the bed and got him sitting on the edge. His hands gripped the covers tightly and he tried to force himself to get up and start running, and there were careful hands checking the bruises on his face and then the bandage on his head was pulled aside gently and he heard the sharp intake of breath above him, and for some strange reason he thought of Cary Elwes being tended to before they put him in The Machine, and for some even stranger reason he had to fight the urge to share the thought out loud. Then the man was kneeling on the floor in front of him and a glass of water was pressed into his hands.

He drank, quickly and greedily, and only considered afterwards that there might have been something in it. He glanced up anxiously but the man was concentrating on shaking out a couple of pills from the bottle the doctor had given him.

"Fell out your pocket when you fell," the man explained shortly, without even looking at him. His lip was split and bleeding. That was something at least. "Here. Take them."

Not a chance. He pressed his mouth shut and shook his head from side to side quickly and the sudden pain of it made him gasp and he was stupid; shouldn't be showing that kind of weakness.

The man glared at him. "Says here 'Take two as required for pain.' I think that what you're experiencing qualifies, don't you?"

"It's your fault. You do remember that, right?" he snapped back and that was stupid too. Shouldn't be trying to anger.

For a moment the man's expression didn't change. Not in the slightest. But it seemed to _tighten _somehow. Then he sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. You're right. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But I was scared I was going to lose you again. Fuck, it's been almost a day. You got any idea how _worried _I've been? And when I got to the hospital and saw Dawson's thugs . . . "

Oh, this guy was good at this. Better than Steven. Fucking with his head. He'd almost believe the bastard was sincere. Would almost believe he was worried about him. Fuck, he hated him.

The man was staring at him. "Danny . . . ?" he said uncertainly.

Oh, _very _good. A name dropped in like it was nothing, like it was obvious.

"It's not going to work," he hissed furiously.

"Danny, it's me," the man said, sounding soft and pleading and confused. Bastard. "It's Rusty."

He felt like applauding. "Like that's supposed to mean something to me?"

A flicker of something flew over the man's face and he took satisfaction in the sight, in the thought of plans crumbling, in the hurt. "You don't remember me?"

"Oh, let me guess," he snarled. "We've known each other a long time, we work together, we're best friends. I can trust _you. _That about the size of it?"

The man's mouth shut with an audible snap. "Danny . . . " he began again, after a moment.

" - Don't call me that," he ordered. Last thing he wanted was another fake name thrust on him.

"What's the first thing you remember?" the man asked intently.

He almost laughed at the idea that they were trying to catch him out in a lie he wasn't telling. "Waking up in hospital this afternoon," he said triumphantly. "So you can just run along and tell your boss _that." _

"You don't remember . . . " The man shook his head slowly, helplessly. "You think I'm lying to you? You think we don't know each other?"

"Just because I don't remember doesn't mean I can't guess that I don't count any badly dressed, blond pretty-boys among my friends." He shot to wound, to insult.

Didn't seem to affect the man in the slightest. "We know each other. You trust me. You've always trusted me. Danny - "

" I _said _don't call me that," he repeated angrily.

There was a pause. The man sighed. "It's your name. Daniel Ocean."

"That the best you can come up with?" he scoffed.

"Don't blame me, blame your parents," the man told him with a very slight smile.

For a second, before he reminded himself that none of this was real, he desperately wanted to ask. Didn't let it show on his face though.

The man looked at him sadly. "No. I'm sorry. They died a long time ago. Back when you were a kid. I never met them, but they were good people. You loved them."

He stared at the dirty carpet. None of this was real. The man was just making up a life to torment him with. None of it was real.

"You don't have any other relatives, really. Couple of aunts somewhere. No one you've spoken to in the last ten years."

Not real. Not real. Not . . . he had no one?

"No!" the man said emphatically and that was wrong and he should think about that, but the man kept talking and he found himself listening instead. "You've got lots of friends. Lots of people who care about you. Who love you."

"Other criminals," he asked savagely, looking up in time to see the flicker of confusion in the man's eyes. "That's what I was doing when this all happened, wasn't it? Stealing?"

"Yeah," the man said with the slightest of pauses. "Mackenzie was the target. You were in the office, I was downstairs, running distraction, keeping the staff away. Nothing we haven't done before. The floor above the office, we . . . I was sure it was empty. We'd checked. There wasn't supposed to be anyone there."

The guilt in the man's voice was obvious. "And there was," he stated.

The man nodded. "And while I was downstairs keeping a bunch of _office workers _away from you, those three thugs came downstairs and caught you. And you ran, trying to get them away from . . . trying to get them away."

"From you," he finished the thought. And he could see how he was supposed to be thinking, could see the line the man was luring him down. Apparently, in the past, he'd cared so much for this guy that he'd been willing to get caught and suffer himself in order to spare him, even though it was the bastard's fault that he'd been in danger in the first place. "And now Dawson's sent you - "

"I do _not_ work for Dawson," the man interrupted and there was a note of anger and indignation in his voice, and somehow he thought that maybe the man was sincere.

"You said we worked together," he pointed out.

"_You don't work for Dawson!_" And the anger and indignation were even more pronounced, somehow.

He paused and tried to think. It was difficult. His head still hurt. He was still so tired.

The man looked at him for a long moment, shook his head and crossed to the phone on the nightstand. "I'm going to call - "

Okay. It was simple. If the man didn't work for Dawson, then that meant he must work for Mackenzie. And _that_ meant . . . He leapt to his feet. " - No!" He knocked the phone out of the man's hands and it hit the wall with a clatter. "I'm not going back!"

"I was going to call a doctor," the man said quietly.

He scoffed openly. "Right. Of course you were. You were going to call a doctor and then your friends turn up and I'm back tied to a chair again - "

" - what? - "

" - and then they're standing over me and they say they'll stop if I just tell them - "

" - What did they do? - "

" - and, what, you're still pretending to be my friend, right? Saying that it'd be better if I told them so that there won't be any more pain, and - "

" - _What did they do?" _And for the first time the voice – filled with pain, filled with anger, filled with emotion beyond reason, beyond comprehension, beyond imagination – for the first time he truly heard it and it stopped him dead. He looked up and found himself held in the gaze of the most vivid blue eyes he'd ever seen. He shook his head. Couldn't say anything. "_What did they do?" _the man said again and the words were wild and desperate. Before he had time to think about it he found himself pulling his shirt down. Found himself showing this man, this stranger, exactly what they'd done.

The man stared, unmoving, unblinking, not even breathing and he couldn't even begin to understand the sensation of rage that hung in the air. Then in an instant the man's fists were clenched and he was pacing up and down. "I'll kill them. I'll . . . I'll _kill _them."

He laughed openly. "That supposed to make me trust you?" he demanded.

The man stopped and stood still and, with a deep, shuddering breath, seemed to get himself under control again. "No. No, I guess not. But I'm on your side. I'm always on your side. Forever. I promise."

Didn't mean anything. Words were easy. And he didn't find himself wondering. Well. Not for more than a minute, anyway.

"Let me see," the man said quietly, and he pulled the shirt aside again, and the man was looking with a frown. "Not much we can do. Been too long. Can clean and cover it though. Better than nothing." He clenched his teeth. "Bastards," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

Now there was an apology he didn't even understand and while he was puzzling it out he found himself following the man through to the bathroom and it took a moment before he figured out what was going on. Yeah. Like he was going to let this guy take care of him. "I can do it myself," he said firmly, and luckily the man didn't force the issue, luckily the man let him push him out the bathroom.

Just as well. The cold water hurt like a bitch, and tears sprang to his eyes. Not something he wanted anyone else to see if he could help it. The pain, staying on his feet, staying awake – it was beginning to take a toll on him.

He stumbled out of the bathroom and the man gave him a slight smile, concern in his eyes. "All right?"

"It's not going to work," he said wearily. "You can drop the act." He didn't look at the door. But he had to think about running, even if this guy wasn't threatening.

"How far do you think you could get?" the man asked quietly.

He froze. He hadn't voiced the thought. Hadn't looked at the door. Hadn't given any clue whatsoever. "How did you do that?" he demanded in a whisper.

The man blinked. "Do what?" he asked.

"You just . . . you _knew _what I was thinking." It was wrong. Felt wrong.

"Oh. Right." The man stared at him and he could almost see the thoughts passing over his head. "Its difficult to explain."

"Like a bad movie," he muttered.

The man grinned. "It's not the Force. Nothing clever, really. We just know each other really well."

And he still didn't believe that. Just that it was getting more difficult to know what he did believe. Fuck, he was tired. He'd sit down for a moment, then he'd get up and run before the man knew what was going on. That was the best plan.

He staggered over to the bed and sat down heavily on the end.

"Why don't you lie down?" the man suggested lightly. "That would be even better."

He considered it for a moment and really, he couldn't see a downside. Odds on the man would be even more surprised when he ran after having been so obviously resting.

"Right," the man agreed and somehow his shoes were being pulled off and then he was lying down and the blanket was being pulled round him gently. "There you go."

"Gonna read me a bedtime story?" he mumbled.

The man laughed softly. "Nah. You're not up for any of the good ones right now."

He half woke up to find the man's fingers on his wrist and automatically he punched out, and this time the man dodged his fist effortlessly and kept talking into the phone, his eyes on his watch. "A hundred and twenty . . . yeah. Well, he's a little agitated, but . . . exactly."

"Don' touch me," he slurred. "Don' _trust_ you, you bastard."

The man covered the mouthpiece. "It's okay," he promised. "Go back to sleep."

"Need to escape," he explained.

"You can escape in the morning, when you're feeling better," the man said firmly, and really, that made sense.

"You're a nicer fake friend than Steven," he said thoughtfully.

The man blinked. "Go back to sleep," he advised.

Surprisingly, he did.


	5. Chapter 5

**Quick update. Mostly in order to annoy InSilva. What? **

* * *

He was woken several times during the night. The man shook him awake – gently, admittedly – and waited until he swore or punched at him or offered some sort of semi-coherent reaction. Head injury, of course. Not supposed to let the person sleep too long. And every time he saw the concern in the man's eyes and every time he doubted what he knew a little more.

When he finally woke up on his own, daylight was streaming in the window. Late morning, he'd guess. He'd slept a long time and he was feeling better for it. The pain was a dull ache and the terrible feelings of lethargy and dizziness had all but gone.

Of course, he still couldn't remember a thing. Not time to start celebrating just yet.

He sat up and glanced round the room quickly. The man was curled up on an uncomfortable-looking chair, asleep. His head was hanging down at the sort of angle that would make anyone wince to see. Oh, that was going to hurt when he woke up. He found himself studying the man carefully. His face was drawn and exhausted and his lip looked swollen and sore. To his surprise, he felt guilty about that and he found himself considering; the man had taken care of him, had stayed with him and no one else had showed up to hurt him or kill him. Maybe . . .

No. No. He couldn't assume that the man was for real. Had to believe that it was a trick. A long game to win his trust and be in the perfect position if he suddenly remembered where the list was. As long as he was with this man, he had to assume that he could be betrayed at a moment's notice. He had to leave. The only person he could, should, count on was himself.

Silently he put his shoes on and headed towards the door.

"I'll just find you again," the man said quietly.

He turned slowly. The man hadn't opened his eyes. Oh, that wasn't _fair. _ "Why?"

"Your company is irresistible," came the deadpan answer. The man sat up and stretched and yawned. He winced to hear bones crack. The man smiled slightly. "Guess that still bothers you. Sorry."

"So I'm stuck with you?" he demanded.

"Yeah," the man agreed and sighed. "Do you even know where you were going to go? In case you've forgotten, Dawson and Mackenzie still both have people out looking for you."

He ignored the first question. He really didn't have any idea where he was going. Just away. To would probably take care of itself eventually. "Guess they really want that list," he mused idly, turning away and sitting back down on the bed. Since he wasn't going anywhere quite yet.

There was a pause and he turned to find the man staring at him blankly. "What list?"

Wait, _what? _"The list," he explained slowly. "The one I stole from Mackenzie. You said yesterday we were stealing - "

" - a pot," the man interrupted, shaking his head. "We were stealing a little Ancient Greek pot from Mackenzie's office. It's worth twenty thousand at least and he doesn't even know it. Uses it to keep paperclips in."

"You're kidding," he said. That didn't make sense. None of that made sense.

"I'm not," the man said simply, and looking at him, he could almost believe that.

He bit his lip. "That's not - "

" - oh, not in the slightest," the man agreed.

He glared at him. "Don't do that," he ordered.

"Sorry," the man said with seemingly genuine contrition. "But I know what we were stealing. We were even going to replace it."

His mind was racing. It was getting really difficult to figure out exactly where the man was going with these lies. Though that must be the point. Confuse him into trusting. Make everything seem so unlikely that it must be true. He'd done it himself . . . hadn't he? "With a counterfeit?"

"No, with a mug with a smiley face on it," the man answered absently.

He grinned. Couldn't help it. "Really?"

"A victory for taste," the man said solemnly.

"_Good_ taste?" he found himself asking, looking at the man's shirt. It looked like a roll of popped bubble wrap..

The man grinned at him like he was sharing in the best joke ever and somehow he was smiling back.

"So," he began presently. "Why do they think I have the list?" He wanted to know what the man was going to say.

He didn't answer right away. Just sat and his fingers rubbed round the outside of his mouth. "I have no idea," he said at last. "Don't even know what it is. Don't know why it's important."

"Steven said whoever had it would win the turf war," he remembered out loud.

The man looked at him keenly. "Well that's - " he left the thought trailing in the air and blinked and shook his head after a second. "Not good," he finished finally. Then his expression shifted. "Who's Steven? You mentioned him before."

He paused. "One of Mackenzie's people," he said finally. "He was . . . he . . . "

"The one who burned you?" the man asked with a razor-sharp edge to his voice.

"No." He shook his head. "That was Willy. Steven came after. He . . . he pretended to know me. Pretended we were friends. Told me my name was Harry Smith, that I worked for Dawson. Then once he was sure that I was telling the truth he told the others that I didn't know anything." He remembered the feelings of betrayal, of desperation, of hurt.

For a long moment the man's face was blank. Somehow though, somehow he thought that there was a lot going on somewhere he couldn't see. Somehow, he thought he should be worried. He just didn't know why. Or for who. "And that's what you think I'm doing?"

"Yes," he said immediately, and felt ashamed.

"Right." The man nodded slowly. "Right." He suddenly flashed a dazzling smile. "You hungry?"

He hadn't eaten since the diner yesterday. "Yeah," he said in surprise.

"Okay then. Pizza." Clearly a decision had been made and clearly he wasn't getting a say in it. The man must have spotted and correctly interpreted his look."You can choose the toppings," he offered generously.

Oh, really. "Just one small problem with that," he said through gritted teeth.

The man blinked. "You don't know what you like?"

He shook his head. He could imagine tastes, could say what they were, and he couldn't say for certain which of them he'd like. "We're supposed to know each other, shouldn't you be able to tell me what I want?"

To his surprise, the man smiled. "Nice tactic," he approved. "Though I got to say, I'm really tempted to say you like anchovy, olives and banana."

"You don't know . . . " he trailed off. If the man didn't know something so simple he'd know where they stood.

Huh. Probably that was the most serious look anyone had ever worn when discussing pizza toppings. "Chicken, bacon and mushroom, normally. Sometimes red onion. Mostly only when you've been drinking."

"I haven't been," he said, thinking of the bottle of Scotch that was still in the coat pocket.

"You're not going to be," the man said firmly. "Not with a head injury."

He felt himself pout slightly. "Spoilsport."

The man stared at him disbelievingly. "Terrific," he muttered. "You get hit on the head and wake up as me."

* * *

Once the pizza was ordered they'd sat in silence. Well, actually that wasn't true. He'd turned the ancient TV on and quickly found himself lying on the bed watching Top Cat in fuzzy black and white. For a brief moment he'd thought the man was planning on lying down next to him, but fortunately he'd misunderstood and the man settled back down on the chair. Just as well. Some things would just be creepy.

The pizza, when it arrived, was hot and delicious and huge and he tore into it like he hadn't eaten for a month. Surprisingly, so did the man, and he found himself with the irrational idea that the guy probably hadn't stopped since he turned up missing, not even for a moment, not even to eat or rest.

"I called a doctor," the man said casually once half the pizza was gone.

He paused with the slice halfway to his mouth. "Really." Thinking about it he vaguely remembered the phone call.

"Yeah," the man nodded. "Guy we know. Stan. He's good. Discreet. He's arriving in town in a few hours. Says we'll probably need to con our way into the hospital to get the tests we need, but apparently we don't need to be worrying any more than we are."

"_I _don't need to be worrying." Too many plurals and he wanted to be clear on that point. "It's my head."

The man nodded. "Yeah. _You _don't need to be worrying." He gave the man a suspicious look, somehow feeling as though there'd been something else behind those words but the man looked entirely innocent. Like that could be trusted. "Anyway, I want to go pick up some money before we meet him."

His lip curled. "You mean steal some."

To his credit the man met his gaze. "Yes."

"What, this guy won't help unless he gets paid immediately?" he asked.

The man looked vaguely irritated for a second. "No. No, Stan would help us anyway. He'd know we'd pay him back as soon as we could. Hell, he'd probably help us for free if he thought we'd ever let him. Way things are going, _I _want to make sure he's paid in advance."

"Honour among thieves?" He made his voice as light as he could.

"Stan isn't a thief," the man said immediately. "He's a doctor. The sort of doctor you call when people are looking for you and its too dangerous to just go to the hospital. Sort of doctor you call when you need to stay out of sight."

He nodded and felt the urge to change the subject. "But you need to get money? You don't have any?" Or did he just not want to spend his own money on _his _medical treatment?

"Yeah. Yeah, I got money. In the bank, well mostly. Thing is, Mackenzie's people had you for a while. Twice. And you were in hospital . . . now, these guys are _stupid_ but it's not entirely implausible that they thought to get your fingerprints. And if they've got your fingerprints, they can get your name. And if they've got your name they've got my name. And probably I'm overestimating them. But until I know for certain, I want us completely off the radar."

He nodded slowly. "I have a record." Somehow, that was what he was focusing on.

"You've never been charged with anything," the man said neutrally. "But you've been implicated a few times in a few different things. Nothing that stuck."

"Oh," he said quietly, and he wasn't sure that he wanted to think about that too hard. It was one thing to think that he was probably a bad guy. It was another to hear someone agree he was a criminal. A criminal the police knew. He sighed and changed the subject again. "So, tell me about myself." He held up a hand as the man leaned forwards eagerly. "Nothing fanciful. No stories. Just the basics." He didn't want to get sucked in to reminisces of a life he wasn't sure he believed in. Too easy to adopt a well-told lie as a personal truth. And he was certain this man could tell a very good lie.

"Right," the man nodded. "Well, as I said, your name is Daniel Ocean. Danny to everyone except Saul when he's annoyed with you."

"Saul?" he asked as he was clearly meant to.

"Saul's a friend of ours. A mentor, you might say. We met him when we were kids, just starting out. We were working on the same mark. Our play would never have worked if he hadn't intervened. Think we amused him. Think we still amuse him. But we'd do anything for him. He'd do anything for us."

He nodded. "And he's a crook."

The man looked thoughtfully at him. "Con artist, almost exclusively. We're a bit more varied. Honestly, we'll turn our hands to most things. We've been con men, card sharps, art thieves, bank robbers - "

" - cattle rustlers," he suggested sarcastically.

The man grinned. "Closest we ever got was in Memphis last year. Getting ten thousand dollars worth of jewels out of the city inside an eight foot tall pink plastic cow, both of us garlanded in flowers."

He wasn't smiling. Didn't find the mental image amusing in the slightest. Wasn't in any danger of relaxing into the man's presence.

"Right," the man continued. "So, your name is Danny Ocean. You're twenty seven years old. Your birthday was last month. July 3rd." He smiled. "We crashed a movie premiere to celebrate."

"Any good?" he asked.

"Canapés were wonderful," the man reminisced with what was possibly a disturbing light in his eyes. "Plenty of champagne. Movie was Die Hard 2 though."

He frowned. "Oh, that's - "

" - airports don't even work that way," the man nodded.

There was a pause and he could see the man wince even before he scowled and gritted his teeth. "I _said _don't _do _that."

"Sorry," the man apologised, sounding sincere. "Sorry. I'll try. It's . . . a little difficult."

"How hard can it be to _not _read someone's mind?" he demanded.

The man shrugged awkwardly. "We got to meet Bruce Willis," he offered suddenly.

Okay. He was slightly intrigued. "What was he like?"

"He was nice," the man said, after a moment's consideration. "Mostly we talked about 'Moonlighting'"

He smiled. "Oh, I love that show!"

"I know," the man nodded. "Except for the one where - "

" - he's his own unborn baby - " he agreed, with a grimace.

" - wearing a diaper for the whole episode - " the man interrupted.

" - the Clarence wannabe with the staircase," he remembered. "Still. The way they always - "

" - talk over each other - " the man grinned.

" - and still know exactly what the other one's saying." He laughed and shook his head. "Good show. Completely unrealistic.

"Yeah," the man agreed, smiling.

"So that's my life?" he puzzled, looking round the dingy motel room. "Hollywood premiere on month, robbing low-lifes in St Louis the next?"

The man just looked at him and he was left with the distinct impression that the man didn't see anything wrong with this picture at all.

"Right," he nodded after a moment. He looked at the man and sighed. "It's not just that I don't know you."

"I'm getting that," the man agreed dryly.

"I'm not sure that I _want _to." He managed to ignore the spasm of pain that crossed the man's face. "I woke up and there are people trying to kill me, and I tell lies as easily as I breath, and I can pick locks, I steal, and you tell me I'm a career criminal . . . I'm not sure that I want to be one of the bad guys anymore."

"You're not the bad guy," the man said softly, an edge of horror and anger in his voice.

He smiled sadly. "But you would say that, wouldn't you?"

"Because you think I'm one of the bad guys?" the man asked slowly.

"Even if you're exactly who and what you say you are, you're still one of the bad guys," he pointed out.

The man stared up at the ceiling. "Think we have a comparative morality problem here." He looked back down and faced him with a steady gaze. "We're not the bad guys. We don't steal from anyone who can't afford it. Not just because people who can't afford it don't have anything worth stealing. We try and target people who deserve it. Like Mackenzie. We don't hurt anyone - "

" - really?" he interrupted. "You can look me in the eyes right now and tell me I've never hurt anyone?"

The man looked at him. "Sometimes there's been fights," he said eventually. "And sometimes things have been necessary. Things we would never want to do."

"The ends justify the means?" he asked mockingly. "Or was it all okay because I was _really sorry_ afterwards."

"You thought so at the time," the man said evenly. "And yes. You were devastated."

"Oh, that makes everything all right, doesn't it?" He sighed. "Tell me . . . tell me I've never killed anyone."

"No!" the man exclaimed and his eyes were wide, but there was something else . . .

"But you think I would?" he persisted. "Under the right circumstances?"

"Anyone could. Under the right circumstances," the man said, reluctantly and uncomfortably. "You'd kill for . . . you'd kill for your family."

He froze. "You said . . .last night you said I don't _have _any family," he whispered. Fuck. Fuck, he'd caught the man out in a direct lie. And he'd really been starting to believe.

"There are all kinds of family. You have a lot of people who'd probably count you as family. Who love you like family."

He narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out if this was more than a clever save. "You?" he guessed.

"Yes," the man replied instantly. "Oh, yes. I'd do anything for you."

"Anything?" he asked softly.

"Yes," the man said, without the smallest trace of hesitation.

"So if I see this doctor, and he says my memory's never coming back, and I decide I want to start a new life . . . you'll leave, will you? You'll leave, and never come near me again?"

There was a pause. "Let's cross that bridge if we come to it, okay?" the man suggested eventually.

He shook his head. "You said you'd do anything," he reminded the man.

The man closed his eyes. "If . . . " He swallowed hard. "If I was sure you were safe, from Mackenzie and Dawson. If it was what you really wanted. Yes. Yes, I'd leave and never see you again."

There was silence. For a very long time there was silence. "Okay then," he said at last. "What did you say your name was again?"

The man smiled at him. It didn't reach his eyes. It really, really didn't reach his eyes, and he could understand the hurt. "Rusty," he said. "Rusty Ryan."

* * *

**Hope you're still enjoying; thanks for reading.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Stupid chapter was very difficult to write. *sulks***

* * *

The first thing they'd done was head to the strip mall opposite the motel, and he'd trailed after the man – Rusty, and really, he had to try and remember that- as he'd raced through the shop, picking up items of clothing with only the barest consideration. All the time he'd been wondering whether he should try and run, whether he should escape. Somehow he didn't think he'd get very far.

Once he was apparently done, Rusty led him back to the motel and pushed the clothes into his arms. "Here. Take a shower and get changed. You'll feel better for it. Oh, and try and keep . . ." he gestured at the head wound, ". . .out of the water. I'll redo the dressing afterwards."

"I can do it myself," he pointed out tight-lipped.

Rusty nodded slowly. "It's easier if someone else does it though," he said.

It was. Would be. He was uncertain.

Rusty's expression softened. "Do you know what you're afraid I'll do?" he asked.

Really, he wasn't afraid of Rusty doing anything, as such. He just didn't want to be dependent. Didn't want to need. "Okay," he said, as if he was doing Rusty an enormous favour.

"Thank you," Rusty said, as if he agreed.

The shower _was _wonderful and he did feel better for it. He stayed until the hot water started to peter out, and reluctantly, he wrapped a towel around himself and investigated what Rusty had bought them. Huh. Nice suit, subtle, not like the monstrosity Rusty was wearing, dark blue with a crisp white shirt. Socks. Underwear. He stared. Underwear. He'd been bought underwear by another man. Another man apparently felt confident knowing what kind of underwear he wore. That was . . . that was nothing he wanted to think about. Shaking his head, he dressed quickly.

"You got the right size," he said in surprise, examining himself in the mirror, his fingers running round his shirt collar.

"Yeah," Rusty called through the bathroom door, his voice suggesting that was obvious.

He emerged from the bathroom, frowning. "Yes, but you knew," he pointed out.

Rusty shrugged and looked him up and down. "Better?"

"Yes," he agreed.

"Tried to get something you'd like," Rusty explained. "Selection was a bit limited though." He grinned. "Probably one of the cheaper outfits you've ever worn in your life."

He nodded and wondered at the picture of himself he was building up. The man that Rusty knew.

Rusty held up a dressing and some tape. "Sit," he ordered firmly.

He grimaced and complied. Obedient, for the moment. Just for the moment. He didn't have to go along with anything Rusty said, and he had to remember that.

It was strange. Rusty's fingers were gentle and quick and confident, and despite the fact that Rusty was standing so close to him, despite the fact that he was so vulnerable, he felt relaxed. Cared for. And as Rusty's hand lingered, lay on his hair – just because he was holding his head still, obviously, of course – he had to fight the urge to lean in to the touch. Fuck, he needed to control himself better. This wasn't what he wanted. It was just that Rusty was the only person he felt he knew even a little, and he was confused, and he was frightened, and he was forming a stupid attachment, a ridiculous over-dependence and he had to get past that.

"There," Rusty said finally, smiling at him. "That's done for the moment. Stan will be able to do a better job later."

He checked the dressing. Seemed okay. "Thanks," he said sincerely, gratitude in his voice, and he didn't understand the expression of pain that flickered across Rusty's face.

"Don't mention it," Rusty said shortly. "You ready to head out?"

Frowning, he nodded and wondered if, at some point, he'd understand what was going on.

* * *

He followed Rusty to an upmarket neighbourhood. Which was surprising; if he'd thought about it, he'd have guessed that they'd have stayed downtown, close to the streets or whatever.

Rusty glanced at him. "Not the kind of place that Dawson and Mackenzie tend to operate in. We can stay for longer without risking them finding us."

He glared and didn't bother pointing out that he hadn't actually voiced the thought.

"Sorry." Rusty looked abashed. He sighed and looked round. "Let's get this thing done."

He found himself being dragged into a variety of businesses, boutiques and bars, and being told to wait, somewhere out of sight where Rusty could still see him at all times. And he watched as Rusty pulled a variety of cons – a Taylor Hammond here, a pigeon drop there, a Silent Pepper, change raising – each time the names, the hows and whats, were in his head, and he didn't know what to make of that, and all the time the money accumulated.

As he watched Rusty he realised two things. First, Rusty was _good. _Really, really good; all smiling charm and confidence. Marks were falling over themselves to give Rusty money and really, he had to work harder to remind himself that he disapproved, that just because the marks – victims - were greedy and stupid didn't mean that they deserved to lose their hard-earned money. Second, he realised Rusty was rushing, taking thoughtless risks, pushing the marks further and faster than could possibly be wise. And it was working, but it didn't feel right, and if he had to guess he'd say that most of Rusty's attention was on checking on _him, _on knowing exactly where he was and what he was doing every single moment. And that was really stupid. And it meant he couldn't hope to escape.

Still, he didn't say anything and the day wore on and the exhaustion crept up on him again, and the cons started running together, and his head started pounding. All his concentration went on staying on his feet, on following Rusty and not showing his weakness. So it came as a surprise when he found himself sitting down in the back of a diner, a glass of iced water and the bottle of painkillers being held out in front of him.

"Here," Rusty said gently. "Sorry."

He glanced at the pills suspiciously for a second, then gave in and took them. Honestly, he probably needed to.

"Thanks," he said, then added "Not your fault."

Rusty sighed. "I'm the one dragging you round the city."

He nodded. "Not because you want to though," he pointed out and Rusty smiled at him little then vanished.

He sipped at his water for a while, resolutely not looking towards the counter, not even wanting to know what Rusty was pulling, and gradually the pain in his head eased a little, and by the time Rusty came back with a coffee and a chocolate milkshake, he was feeling more human. Huh. Maybe Rusty hadn't brought them in here for a con at all.

It was difficult to avoid staring as Rusty slurped at the milkshake. "How _old_ are you?" he asked amused.

Pausing, Rusty appeared to take the question seriously. "Twenty-four," he answered.

"Oh." It was strange to suddenly realised that it wasn't only himself that he knew nothing about. He took a drink of coffee and found himself wondering. "How did we meet?"

Rusty smiled slightly. "Nearly eight years ago," he began. "In New York. You were wandering the country, you told me later. Just looking for excitement. And then you wandered into the wrong neighbourhood, pulled a Canadian Parcel on the wrong person and suddenly you found a lot of it."

"Is there always someone trying to kill me?" he asked, half serious.

"Nah," Rusty shook his head quickly. "And Freddy wasn't trying to kill you. Wouldn't have been pleasant, but he wasn't trying to kill you. Anyway, I was working the lines outside the clubs when I first saw you." He hesitated. "I mean - "

" - lifting wallets from drunks," he cut in.

Rusty looked at him sharply and he shook his head, almost apologetically. Not memory. Just knowledge.

"Yeah," Rusty went on after a pause. "Few card tricks as well." He stopped, and it was impossible to imagine what he was thinking of.

"You in the neighbourhood for excitement too?" he asked lightly.

Rusty grinned. "I grew up there. Which is why I knew, when you came running round the corner with Freddy's goon after you that you were in trouble."

"So what happened?" he asked, interested and still hoping desperately that some of this would spark a memory. "Did I ask for help?"

"Never really been your style," Rusty said, with a slightly sad smile. He sighed. "See, this is where it gets difficult. I looked up at the excitement – everyone did – and our eyes happened to meet."

"And what?" he asked, semi-sarcastically. "The bolt from the blue?"

Rusty shrugged uncomfortably. "I tripped the guy. Just because I could, and you looked at me. Surprised, I guess. Then another three of Freddy's people came running round the corner, saw us standing over their friend, and we both had to run for it. Spent the rest of the night running and hiding. And talking. There was a lot of talking. Lot of jokes. Lot of . . . there was a lot of a lot of things. After that we just stayed together. We never discussed it, just seemed inevitable. Working together. Partners. Friends. Everything was suddenly easier. And more fun. Much, much more fun. Like we could do anything. Go anywhere. Be anything. Like we had everything we could ever want. Like we couldn't be stopped. It's like . . . the world's brighter because you see it. Because you see _me_."

He hadn't wanted to interrupt somehow, as Rusty's voice grew more wistful, more distant, but as Rusty started talking about something that he couldn't believe and couldn't imagine, he cleared his throat abruptly.

Looking at him sharply, Rusty grimaced. "Sorry. That got away from me a little. Didn't mean to sound so Disney."

He shrugged. "Yeah, well."

"We were friends," Rusty said simply. "And we liked each other and we understood each other from the start. That better?"

More believable, certainly.

Rusty sighed. "Still got a little more time before we meet Stan. Still got a little more money to get. You feeling up for it?"

"What would you do if I said no?" he asked wonderingly.

"Give Stan what we got so far. Tell him we'd get him the rest later," Rusty said easily.

"But that's not what you'd prefer," he stated.

"No," Rusty shook his head. "As I said, right now, I'd feel happier paying him up front."

And he didn't like the implications of that, not even a little, but at least Rusty was honest with him, wasn't trying to sugar coat everything. "Yeah, I'm okay." He hesitated, wondering if he should say anything.

"What?" Rusty asked sharply.

"You're rushing, aren't you?" he said eventually. "Taking risks. Because you're watching me."

Rusty looked at him thoughtfully. "You noticed that, huh."

"I noticed that," he agreed.

"It's nothing," Rusty said simply.

"It's stupid." And he was firm and he was definite and it didn't matter that he didn't know everything, he knew enough for that.

And Rusty shrugged, and he knew, _knew, _that meant that there was nothing Rusty thought he could do about it.

He sighed. "If I promise not to run. If I say I'll stay with you, do what you say until after we've seen this Stan guy, will you be more careful?"

Rusty looked at him.

He felt compelled to explain further. "Just because I don't trust you doesn't mean I want to see you arrested." And besides, it was in his best interests to stick around in order to see the doctor. After that, he could see what he thought was best.

"You promise?" Rusty asked intently.

"I promise," he agreed seriously.

Rusty smiled at him, sudden and brilliant and the world was somehow brighter and he didn't understand why.

* * *

Two hours later and they were standing outside the hospital – a different one from the one he'd woken up in, and he wasn't sure exactly why that surprised him – and he watched as Rusty smiled at the man who approached them, and he was more than capable of understanding the relief.

"Good to see you," Rusty said warmly and turned back to him. "This is Stan."

He held his hand out. "Nice to meet you," he said ironically.

Stan smiled at him. "Good to see you again. Rusty said you weren't using your name. Got anything you'd like me to call you?"

Not something he'd actually thought of. He just knew he didn't want to go by any name he didn't recognise. "Nah," he shook his head. "You can call me Danny if you like."

"Okay then," Stan said cheerfully, in a voice that exuded confidence and reassurance, and he knew he was being studied, considered, and somehow he couldn't find it in himself to object. "Rusty, can you get us the room?"

"Got paperwork? A lab coat?" Rusty asked.

"In the bag," Stan nodded, and he watched as Rusty pulled on the white coat, scribbled something over a stack of forms and headed for the entrance.

"Give me five minutes," he called over his shoulder.

He stood around awkwardly with Stan as they let the time pass.

"Don't worry." Stan sounded reassuring, and he had no idea whether he'd looked as if he was worrying. "He's good. He'll be fine."

He looked away. "He's a criminal," he pointed out.

Stan frowned at him. "You don't remember," he said slowly.

"Isn't that the point?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"But you don't remember _him _. . . sorry," Stan smiled and shook his head and looked worried. "It's just strange."

He nodded and tried not to wonder why it was stranger for him to forget Rusty than for him to forget himself.

Five minutes and they strolled into the hospital and Stan, frowning and abrupt made enquiries at reception and they were hastily escorted through twisting corridors by a nurse who was wide-eyed and deferential and they found themselves in a little consulting room where Rusty was waiting.

"Figure we got a couple of hours before anyone catches on," he told Stan as soon as they walked in. "Think that'll be long enough?"

"Should be," Stan nodded. "You can always get us a little longer if need be, right?" He smiled widely as if his confidence in Rusty could never be misplaced.

Rusty grinned. "Probably," he agreed.

"You want me to look you over afterwards?" Stan asked casually. "You hurt anyplace else?"

"I'm not . . . " Rusty began, frowning, and then his hand drifted to the bruise at his lip. "Oh. That. It's nothing." He smiled. "Walked into a door. Well. Ran into a door, actually. There were some guys chasing me. They didn't exactly seem - "

" - I hit him," he interrupted quietly, not able, for some reason, to hear the lies and excuses.

Stan was staring.

"Before he knew who I was," Rusty said, tight-lipped and insistent. "He thought I was there to kill him."

"Right." Stan nodded slowly and turned to him. "Okay, you want to sit on the couch there?"

He hesitated and glanced at Rusty. "You're staying?" he asked slowly, thoughts of privacy and confidentiality echoing through his head.

There was a long pause and Rusty's expression was neutral. "You'd be more comfortable if I didn't?"

"Yes," he said, and he was almost sure it was the right answer.

Rusty nodded and he told himself that he was imagining the pain behind the blankness. Maybe they were friends. Partners, whatever that meant. That didn't mean Rusty had any right . . . didn't mean that he should just _assume_ . . . It was the right decision. "Okay," Rusty said brightly. "Stan, you need anything?"

"Time for a CT scan?" Stan suggested, his eyes on a bundle of notes he'd pulled from somewhere, and somehow, for some reason, he seemed uncomfortable.

"You got it," Rusty said cheerfully, confidently, and he left. Which was good. Wasn't like he missed him. And even if that wasn't exactly true, he had to wean himself off this desperation, this dependency. Wasn't fair to either of them.

Stan looked up and smiled at him reassuringly. "Well, let's take a look at you then," he said, and he submitted willingly to the examination.

Stan talked as he worked. "Retrograde amnesia. Means that you're missing parts of your long term memory. Normally specific classifications of memory. In your case your identity."

"I still remember how to do things," he put in. "You know, what doorknobs are for. How to use a phone. Names of cons. How to pick locks."

"That's good," Stan nodded. "That's a good sign." Didn't really feel like a good sign. Still felt like he was a person he maybe didn't want to be. "You been having any trouble remembering things after you got hurt?"

He shrugged. "Don't remember what happened immediately after," he offered. "The doctor at the hospital said I'd been conscious, but I don't remember it."

"Hmm," Stan murmured, shining a flashlight in his eyes. "Not that surprising . . . your pupils are responsive . . . you really don't remember Rusty though?"

"That medically significant?" he asked after a pause.

"Personally significant," Stan told him. "Legally, he's your next of kin. You want me to keep him in the dark, that's your right. But technically it's his right to challenge that, if he thinks your incapable of making that decision."

And he could see where that could be valid. Still. "Challenge? Like in a court?"

"Yeah," Stan agreed with a grimace, and it was pretty obvious that would never happen.

"He's my next of kin?" he asked with a frown.

"He is," Stan confirmed. "Your best friend and no one knows you better. You want to remember, he's the one who's most likely to help you."

_(Did he want to remember?)_

After the exam, after the thousand and one tests that Stan had run and Rusty had found ways of expediting, after Stan had attended to, tutted over, the burns on his chest, after his head had been dressed and rebandaged, after all that they were sitting in the consulting room, and he'd agreed to let Rusty in, agreed to let Rusty know what was going on.

"You want this in layman's terms?" Stan asked, looking from one to the other.

"Yes," he nodded.

"Please," Rusty added. It was difficult to say which of them sounded more nervous.

Stan smiled, and that seemed to suggest that it couldn't possibly be that bad. "First of all, there's no permanent damage. Nothing seriously wrong."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rusty sag with relief, and he wondered just what worries he'd been carrying around. "But I still can't remember," he pointed out.

"That's almost certainly temporary," Stan said reassuringly. "Unfortunately there's no actual cure. What you need is to be exposed to familiar places and people, and your memories should start to return on their own."

Right. That was good. Meant he'd go back to being the person he was before. Which was good.

"Thanks, Stan," Rusty said gratefully, and he pulled the envelope with the cash out of his jacket pocket. "Here."

Stan blinked and took it. "Wasn't expecting . . . I thought I'd stick around for a few days. Make sure you're all right."

Rusty smiled tightly. "Not a good idea. You should get out of town as quickly as possible."

"Right." Stan looked uneasy. "Right. Rusty, maybe you should call - "

" - not going to happen," Rusty interrupted firmly.

He sat still, listened to the argument and kept quiet. He was the cause. He was the one the bad guys were looking for. He was the one who was bringing danger to the people who apparently cared for him. (_Rusty_)

* * *

They watched Stan's taxi drive away and Rusty sighed and turned away to walk back along the street. "Come on."

"Where are we going?" he asked. Seemed a valid question, and he looked ahead, watched the street, the crowds of people, the bus idling at the bus stop. Looked anywhere but at Rusty.

"We need to figure out what we're doing next," Rusty told him. "Dawson and Mackenzie are still looking for you, and they're not going to stop and they're not going to give up. We need to figure out what they want and how we're going to deal with them."

Probably that meant that Rusty thought he had to remember where the list was and give it to one or other of them. He wondered which. "Sounds tricky," he said, and they drew level with the bus and he wasn't looking, wasn't looking at all.

"Yeah," Rusty agreed. "I think what we need to do is - "

He wasn't listening. At the last possible moment, just before the doors closed, he stepped sideways, stepped onto the bus and let the crush of people separate them.

"Danny!" He heard Rusty screaming his name as the bus drove off and he cringed and told himself again that he was doing the right thing. For both of them.

* * *

**Thanks for reading, please let me know what you think. ;) **

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	7. Chapter 7

He didn't know how they'd found him. But they had. He'd seen something from the bus, some glimpse of buildings, some streets that for a moment, just for a moment, looked familiar; and overwhelmed with anxiety and the need to know, he'd stumbled to the front of the bus, incoherently demanded that the driver stop, and he'd leapt off and found himself standing in the middle of an intersection, voices yelling at him, cars honking, and he was whirling round, staring, studying every inch, and he knew none of it anymore.

Eventually, coming to his senses, he'd staggered over to the safety of the sidewalk and he'd stood for a long moment, the balls of his fists pressed against his eyes. What was he supposed to do now? He'd ran from Rusty and that had been the right thing to do, because he didn't know what that relationship was, and he wasn't going to let someone else tell him what he wanted. But he didn't know what he did want right then.

And then they found him. Just like that. Four men, leaping out of the car parked on the other side of the street, and their guns were drawn and they charged towards him.

Oh, at last. Something that looked absolutely and unquestionably familiar.

He ran and he could hear them behind him, heading towards him, heard the bystanders screaming, heard the bullet fly past his head, saw the moment when the corner of the building he was running towards exploded outwards in a shower of stone chips.

He ran, feeling like his legs were made of rubber, feeling like he was going to choke on the taste of adrenaline at the back of his throat. Terrified. Desperate.

He ran because he had no real choice. He was never going to give up.

He ran, zig-zagging down unknown streets, dodging through alleys, always, always avoiding people as much as he could. He wasn't going to try and lose himself in a crowd. Not when they were already shooting.

He ran, and he didn't lose them, not once, and in the end he stood in the middle of an alley, and there was a wall ten feet ahead of him, stretching ten feet above him, and there were running footsteps behind him, and he was sure that this was it, that this was the end.

The only thing he was really aware of was the shout, angry and sharp and terrified, and the sudden painful impact, a body crashing into him at top speed, being thrown back across the alley.

Rusty glared, scrambled off him and dragged him to his feet. "Run," he snapped.

Before he could even start to obey, Rusty shoved him up a broken fire escape to his left, and the bullet that thudded into the metal staircase shook the whole structure alarmingly.

"Jump," Rusty added tersely, pointing down at the other side of the wall that blocked the alley. "Now."

He did, and he twisted round in time to see Rusty kicking the stairs down behind them. They wouldn't be followed. That way, away.

With a pained grunt, Rusty landed beside him. "Running is good," he said, pushing him forwards, not exactly gently.

"How did you find me?" he asked as they ran, and he had to glance backwards, because his tone hadn't exactly been grateful.

Rusty's face was blank. But there was something in his eyes. Hurt. A lot of hurt. "You got on a bus, Danny," he explained wearily. "I know you're not exactly familiar with them, but they follow predetermined routes. You might as well have been leaving breadcrumbs."

He bit his lip, angry now, and embarrassed. "That's how they found me?"

"No!" Rusty snapped, and there was a sharp edge to his voice, and apparently he wasn't the only one feeling frustrated. "You got off the bus in front of Mackenzie's fucking office. They must have thought it was Christmas!"

Fuck. For a few steps he just ran. "It looked familiar," he admitted quietly, and he resisted the urge to apologise. He didn't owe it. If he was going to be stupid it was his business. Not like he'd asked Rusty to follow him. "And those were Dawson's people," he pointed out.

"The door there," Rusty told him abruptly. "On the right. Should be open."

He tried it and it opened easily. He scrambled inside and Rusty followed him, closing it tight behind them. They were in some sort of storage room, cluttered with piles of boxes.

"How did you - " he wondered.

" - basement links on to Mackenzie's building," Rusty explained. "We were considering using it. Didn't."

"We're going to Mackenzie's office?" he asked blankly. That didn't sound like such a good idea.

Rusty flashed him a brief smile. "It also has a back door. Well, actually, this is the back door. It also has a front door." He pushed open the door on the far side and they stepped out into what appeared to be a small Chinese supermarket.

The guy behind the counter looked astonished. Rusty smiled at him, said a couple of words, and passed over a few bills.

He blinked as they stepped back on to the street. "You speak Chinese?"

"Uh huh," Rusty agreed, looking left and right before dragging him across the street and disappearing into a new warren of alleys.

For a moment they rested, and he needed it, and they were leaning against opposite walls of the alley, and he didn't look at Rusty. "Why do you speak Chinese?" he wondered.

"Why not?" Rusty answered tightly.

He shrugged. "You think we lost them?" he asked hopefully.

In the distance there was the sound of angry voices.

Rusty sighed wearily. "No," he said, motioning for him to go first, and they were running again.

"They are Dawson's people," he told Rusty again. "I recognise them from the hospital."

"No shit." Rusty sounded angry. Exasperated. "Dawson's been staking out Mackenzie's office for months now. But I'm sure Mackenzie's people will be along any moment now, if that'll make you happier."

Oh, that was it. That was enough. There was no way he could have been expected to know that. No way in the world. "You know, I didn't ask you to follow me! I didn't ask you to chase after me like a little lost sheep! I don't need you, okay? Why don't you just get lost!"

For a couple of heartbeats, there was silence. "As you wish," Rusty said at last and he felt the echo, even as he realised that Rusty had stopped running. He turned round slowly, feeling wrong and feeling guilty.

Rusty was facing the wall, his head down low, one hand pressed against the brickwork, the other pressed into his side.

Hesitantly, he took a couple of steps closer. "Come on," he said slowly. "We've got to get . . . fuck." For the first time he saw the blood. There was blood splashed on the ground behind Rusty. Blood spreading slowly through his fingers, staining his shirt.

"I'm sorry, Danny," Rusty said quietly. "You're right. I was just scared. I thought . . . I thought I'd _lost_ you." His breathing was ragged and there was a crack in his voice, a note of pain that was hardly there and almost too much to bear.

"You were shot?" he asked stupidly, frozen in the middle of the alley.

Rusty looked up at him sharply. "You didn't know?"

He stared. "No I didn't . . . you thought I'd . . .? You _thought_." He clenched his jaw and stepped forwards, reaching out a hand. "Let me see."

Rusty evaded him easily. "No, you need to get going. Run. I just need a moment. I'll catch up."

"This is no time to be a hero," he said angrily.

There was an open smile and Rusty's eyes, when they met his, were amused. "It has nothing to do with being a hero. This is the way it works. This is the way we work. Every man for himself."

Danny suddenly knew he'd never been that kind of man.

He stared. "You're _lying _to me?"

In the distance, sirens sounded.

"Should have known it wouldn't work," Rusty muttered.

"Can you run?" he asked quietly.

Rusty staggered away from the wall, staggered upright and his arms were tight around his body. He nodded tightly and didn't say anything. Probably couldn't say anything.

They ran.

Their pursuers were close behind them, too close, and just because the guns were nowhere in evidence now that the police were on the scene, didn't mean he was any more anxious to meet them. True to Rusty's word, he recognised Bill and Harry, chasing towards them from half a block away. Mackenzie's people. Dawson's people. They were everywhere.

The first moment there was no-one actually in view, Rusty dragged him down a set of stairs into a public restroom.

"What?" he frowned.

"Need to stop this bleeding," Rusty explained, jamming the door. "Leaving a trail. Breadcrumbs again." He walked down the stairs, leaning heavily on the wall all the way, and he was broadcasting 'keep-back' signals that could probably be read from space. And that hurt a little, somehow. He wanted to help Rusty. Wanted to be able to do something.

"You know some gruesome fairy tales," he pointed out, and Rusty smiled a little and pulled his shirt up, revealing a massive bloody gash. "_Fuck_," he swore and automatically he stepped forwards.

Rusty stopped him with a look. "Had worse," he claimed simply and then he stuffed the corner of his shirt into his mouth, holding it up, out of his way.

"Is it bad?" he demanded.

"Nah," Rusty shook his head, momentarily spitting the shirt out of his mouth. "It's nothing."

He frowned. There was something . . . "How do you know?"

Rusty shrugged painfully. "Guess that I'd have fallen down by now if it was serious."

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. "What can I do?" he asked helplessly. However much he thought, there was no mysterious and helpful knowledge popping into his mind.

Pausing in the act of removing his belt, shirt stuffed back in his mouth, Rusty glanced at him, and pointed to the pile of paper towels behind him. Frowning, he passed a couple of them over, and Rusty pressed them into his side.

"Do you know what you're doing?" he asked and the impatient nod he got by way of an answer was almost reassuring.

He watched, uncomprehending, as Rusty pulled the belt around himself, over the paper towels, over the injuries. He got it, just as Rusty clenched his fists tightly, and pulled the belt tight. He got it as he saw the moment when Rusty's legs gave out, when Rusty dropped to his knees in a huddle of shock and agony and he winced, a mixture of sympathy and helplessness and frustration and other things that hovered, just past his comprehension.

"You are an _idiot_," he said wonderingly. It was only a fragment of what he wanted to say.

Rusty looked up at him, eyes clouded. "You remember?"

Almost smiling at that, he reached forwards, to help Rusty up, to offer any help, comfort, he could.

There was a thudding against the door at the top of the stairs. Angry, raised voices.

He glanced back to the stairs. "Maybe someone _really_ needs to go?" he suggested lightly, but he recognised Willy's voice. God. He hid the shudder, the fear.

Rusty was still kneeling on the floor and the sense of pain was ebbing out of him, but he reached out and grabbed the sink, hauling himself to his feet. "We need to get out of here," he said, looking up at the windows.

Maybe. Maybe, but the windows were small and high up, and they were both hurting. He stared quickly round the room. Storage closet. Storage closet built into the side of the wall. And, if he remembered rightly (_Please let him remember rightly_) the ladies restroom was right next door.

The door was locked, but he managed to break the lock open with a quick twist, and found himself in a closet full of mops and toilet roll. And there was a door in the far side.

Rusty stumbled up behind him and secured the door behind him. "This is going to be awkward," he commented.

He looked back over his shoulder. "Yeah. You - "

" - with you," Rusty answered simply, and that might or might not have answered his question.

The second door was just as easy as the first and they stepped out into the ladies restroom and they were greeted by a chorus of screams from the three women standing at the mirror.

"Sorry," he yelled, as they bolted for the stairs.

"We just came out of the closet," Rusty explained further, and he had to resist the urge to turn round and glare. Or laugh.

They ran, and he was tiring, weakening, and Rusty was silently struggling, and when he came to understand that they seemed to have lost everyone for the time being, it seemed like a minor miracle.

"In here," Rusty panted, pointing at a multi-story carpark. "We need to get out of this neighbourhood."

He frowned. "We have a car in here?" he asked.

Rusty looked uncomfortable. "Sorry . . . but we're in real trouble. We need to - "

" - it's okay," he cut in. He got it. He understood, and right there and then, someone's stolen car seemed less important than their lives.

He watched as Rusty picked the lock of the nearest car, sat in the driver's seat and reach under the dashboard. Two seconds later the engine purred into life.

"Huh," he said slowly. Rusty looked at him and shrugged. "You up for driving?" he asked hesitantly. "I could - " He thought he was up to it. Probably. He was still slightly dizzy, but it was nothing he wasn't prepared to try and cope with.

" - no," Rusty said firmly. "You're staying out of sight."

He nodded. "They've see you too," he pointed out.

"Hoping to not be memorable," Rusty said lightly.

With a roll of his eyes, he curled down at the foot of the front passenger seat and did his best to be invisible.

He looked up, watching Rusty as they drove off. There was no sign of pain on Rusty's face, but his fingers were clenched white around the steering wheel and there was a light sheen of sweat on his forehead.

"You okay?" he asked carefully.

Rusty didn't look at him. "Are you?"

He sighed. "When did you get shot?"

"Couple of Dawson's men there," Rusty told him. "Keep your head down."

He was. And he wasn't going to be distracted that easily. "When did you get shot?" he persisted.

"On the fire escape," Rusty answered immediately, his eyes firmly on the road.

"When you knocked me down," he corrected and Rusty didn't reply. "But you didn't know you were going to get shot, right?" You weren't deliberately throwing yourself in front of a bullet for me, right? There was hope in his voice. And somehow, he thought that it was a stupid hope.

"Of course not," Rusty said with an audible laugh. His fingers gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

He closed his eyes. "At least tell me that you knew you weren't going to get killed?" he whispered.

"I knew what I was doing," Rusty assured him, and that was the truth and it wasn't the truth he wanted.

"Fuck." He leaned his head back against the glove box and wondered if he'd ever understand this life he'd forgotten.

After twenty minutes, Rusty pulled the car into a motel parking lot.

"What's the plan?" he asked, pulling himself up onto the seat.

Rusty reached past him and started investigating the glove box. "Need somewhere to rest up for a little while. Just an hour or so. Figure out what we do next. Dawson and Mackenzie know you're still in town, and now they've seen how eager the other is to get hold of you, they're only going to try harder. Whatever this list you mentioned is, they want it back."

"So we're going in here, and we're going to call Stan, right?" he checked.

"No," Rusty said firmly. "We're not calling anyone."

"You've been _shot_," he pointed out uncertainly.

Rusty shrugged. "It's really not that bad. Just looks like a deep cut. I can take care of it myself. No point in dragging Stan back into this, particularly when we're still being chased by, well, everyone." With a look of triumph, he pulled a silk scarf, a Hershey bar and a tube of superglue out of the glove box. "This'll do."

Somehow, he didn't think he wanted to ask.

"Come on," Rusty said, heading towards the front desk. He stopped just outside the door and looked back. "You need to act as though you want me."

He blinked. "_What?" _

Rusty grinned. "Two men booking into a motel for a couple of hours of casual sex? Not going to get much attention. Two men booking in to fix up a bullet wound - "

" - I get it," he cut in.

They got inside. Rusty did the talking and he restricted himself to standing a little closer than he should be comfortable with, leaning in with pseudo-discreet little looks and glances and smiles. The woman behind the desk managed to look bored and sniggery all at the same time and she eyed them with delight and contempt. He was surprised to realise he didn't care.

"Room Four," Rusty said as they walked away, and his voice was quiet and exhausted, and it seemed as though willpower was the only thing keeping him on his feet.

Hurting in sympathy, he took the key out of Rusty's hands and led him into the room. "Call Stan," he said firmly, and Rusty shook his head with painful stubbornness.

"I'll be fine," he said. "Just need to get this sorted. Something that'll hold for a few days, until things have calmed down."

Oh, that was just ridiculous. "You took _me_ to a doctor," he pointed out.

"_You_ don't remember your own name," Rusty answered. "I've just got a graze."

He watched as Rusty struggled out of his shirt and stumbled through to the bathroom swearing and, grimacing, he followed. "That _graze_ looks bad," he commented, tight-lipped, as Rusty gingerly removed the belt and peeled back the sodden wad of paper towels, revealing a mass of blood, swelling and frayed flesh.

"It's fine," Rusty insisted, glaring at him, but his teeth were gritted and the pain was visible in his eyes.

He sighed, and, with an effort, restricted himself to watching, as Rusty cleaned the wound out with cold water, and took a bite of Hershey bar. When Rusty reached for the superglue though, he felt compelled to intervene.

Stepping forwards quickly, he grabbed Rusty's wrist. "What the fuck?" he asked calmly.

"It works," Rusty told him, in a tone that suggested that Rusty thought this was perfectly reasonable. "They used it in Vietnam to hold injuries together. It's perfectly safe."

"You're going to superglue your side together," he stated, hoping that somehow there'd be another explanation.

"Yeah," Rusty agreed. "I know what I'm doing." Gently, Rusty prised the hand off his wrist, and all he could do was stand back and watch helplessly as Rusty slathered superglue onto his side and then held the edges of the wound together. "_Fuck," _he swore with feeling through clenched teeth. "Hurts worse than the fucking bullet."

He followed Rusty as he staggered out of the bathroom and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. "Danny?"

For once, he didn't object to the name. "Yeah?" he asked gently.

"I'm gonna pass out in a minute," Rusty said, not lifting his head. "Sorry. Nothing I can do about that. And I can't stop you walking out that door. But listen. Be careful. Stay as inconspicuous as possible. You should leave town. Head to the airport. Head to Chicago. There's a man there. Bobby Caldwell. Works for the FBI."

"An FBI agent?" he asked, heart hammering in his chest.

"Among other things. He's a good guy. He'll help you. Well. Once you've convinced him you're not joking around, he'll help you. Bobby Caldwell, Chicago FBI office, you got that?"

"Rusty . . . " he began, shaking his head, because this wasn't right, this wasn't . . .

"Have you got that?" Rusty demanded.

"Yeah," he said in a low voice. "Yeah, I've got it."

"Good," Rusty lifted his head and smiled at him, then he lay down, or fell down, and his eyes fluttered shut, and he lay there, still and deathly pale.

Danny found himself looking between Rusty and the door.


	8. Chapter 8

There _was_ a choice here. Really, there was. All he had to do was walk out the door, leave town, maybe seek out this Bobby guy, start a new life for himself. Simplicity itself.

And the only thing that he had to do was turn his back on a man who would risk everything for him. Leave a man who would take a bullet for him. Abandon a man who might well be his best friend, leaving him alone and hurting and vulnerable. Simplicity.

The only thing he'd have to give up was himself.

He walked towards the bed and looked down at Rusty. Huh. The guy was well and truly out for the count. Grimacing, he looked at the bullet wound. It was a long, puckered line, slathered with dried blood and dried glue. Ugly and swollen and livid and red. And he worried, he really did. He wanted to do something. Trouble with that was that he had no idea what a superglued bullet wound was supposed to look like.

Sighing, he grabbed the silk scarf and – taking care to disturb Rusty as little as possible – carefully bandaged it round Rusty's side. Probably that was what it had been intended for. And it would be a slight cushion. Stop the injury from getting rubbed raw, torn open. He hoped.

He stared down at Rusty again and tried to come to terms with the wave of tenderness, protectiveness, affection, _exasperation, _he felt_. _He tried to tell himself that all it was was the natural result of being lost and vulnerable and spending so much time in Rusty's company. Just about clinging to anyone who showed him the slightest concern. That made perfect sense. And he didn't quite believe it. The simple truth was that he _liked _Rusty. A lot. Even on so short an acquaintance, he liked him. He liked the way he smiled. Liked the way he joked around, even when things were serious. Liked the way when they'd been being chased, when there'd been guns, Rusty had been as anxious as him to keep away from other people. He liked the confidence, the courage, the intelligence, the fire. He liked the way Rusty looked at him, liked the way Rusty talked, laughed, listened. Most of all, he liked the way he liked Rusty. It felt – simple. Obvious. Inevitable.

And of course, there was still the possibility that all of this was an extraordinarily complicated and cruel set-up. The possibility remained that he'd never met Rusty before yesterday. But with every moment he spent in Rusty's company, it was getting harder to convince himself of that, and harder to care.

"Let's get you comfortable," he said, gentle and out loud, and Rusty shifted slightly at the sound of his voice.

Carefully he bent down and half picked Rusty up, got him settled actually in the bed, and the movement pulled painfully at the burns on his chest, and really, he'd been trying to forget about them.

Wincing, he pulled the covers up and over Rusty. A hand shot out and grabbed him by the wrist and he froze. But Rusty was still asleep or unconscious, and the grip wasn't painful, it was just insistent, and to his astonishment he was gently dragged down into the bed next to Rusty, and Rusty sighed and clung to his hand.

Well. This was okay. Not too strange. He could rationalise this. Rusty wasn't awake and had obviously mistaken him for someone else. Someone who he associated with comfort. Family member possibly, girlfriend more likely. He glanced sideways. Boyfriend maybe. And if _he_ was lying here, going along with it, well, it was getting dark, he was getting tired, and there was only one bed. This would probably have happened anyway. Except the hand-holding. But he could do something about that. Gently, he tried to disengage his hand, and Rusty moaned and rolled over and buried his face into his shoulder.

"Danny," he murmured, contentment in his voice.

Oh.

* * *

He woke up to a hammering on the door, daylight streaming in through the window and Rusty's arm around his waist. Pulling a face, he shrugged it off. Since last night, he'd had to shove Rusty back to his side of the bed four or five times. Guy was a restless sleeper. He stumbled out of bed and pulled the door open. The woman from last night was standing there, her arms full of towels, a scowl on her face.

"Here," she said, thrusting a pile of towels into his arms. "And you were supposed to check out two hours ago. You owe me another day."

He sighed and awkwardly reached into his pocket and gave her the last of his money.

She smirked evilly at him, her eyes on his cuff, and he glanced down, frowning, and saw a small bloodstain on his shirt. Must've come from when he was bandaging Rusty. Before he could say anything, she looked past him and he turned and followed her gaze to the bed where Rusty was lying on his front, and the blankets had been pulled back enough to show a bare shoulder.

Moving quickly he blocked her view and he didn't like the expression on her face in the slightest. "Is that everything?" he asked, cold and smiling.

She grinned suggestively. "You have a _good _time, now," she told him, and he hastily closed the door almost in her face.

Huh. He glanced over to Rusty. Well.

Rubbing at his chest absently, he wandered through to the bathroom. Fuck, that hurt a little. A lot. He winced, shrugged off his shirt and carefully peeled back the dressings. Looked bad. But he was pretty sure it looked bad in the way that meant he was healing. Stan had given him some cream to put on it, he remembered, and according to the instructions, he really should've done that last night. Well, things had got a little complicated. Better late than never, and he rubbed it in carefully. He took a quick glance at his head before he left the bathroom. And that was looking better too. And it was feeling better. Just that he still couldn't remember anything.

As he walked back into the room, rebuttoning his shirt, he happened to glance out the window and froze as he saw Steven, Willy, Bill and Harry inspecting their car. Their stolen car. Fuck.

He flew across the room. "Rusty! Rusty, wake up!" he hissed.

"I don't wanna, Danny," Rusty mumbled reasonably. "Five more - "

" - Rus', we're in trouble," he interrupted tightly.

Instantly Rusty was awake, sitting bolt upright. "What?" he demanded.

"Mackenzie's men out front," he explained.

Rusty sighed. "Fuck," he said shortly, hastily getting out of bed. He looked up at Danny intently, as though he'd just realised something. "Wait, what did you call me there?"

He blinked. "Rusty?" he said, suddenly uncertain. He couldn't have forgotten again. He hadn't forgotten again.

"Oh," Rusty shook his head and there was something in his eyes – disappointment? "Must've misheard." He frowned suddenly. "Why are you still here?"

Danny stared at him. "Where else would I be?"

"You were supposed to be gone," Rusty said tightly. "Bathroom?" he suggested, grabbing his shirt off the floor and wriggling into it.

"Bathroom," he agreed, leading the way into the room and forcing the window open as far as it could go. Still going to be a squeeze. But this window opened onto the side, not the front, and with any luck they could be through it and out past the reception desk before they were seen. He gestured for Rusty to go first. "I decided not to," he continued, maybe a little angry. "You think that I should've left you behind?"

Rusty squirmed his way through the window with only the slightest gasp of pain as the metal frame rasped over his side. "They aren't looking for me," Rusty pointed out with exaggerated patience as he turned round to help him through. "I would've been fine."

His shoulders were going to be bruised to hell in a few hours. Still, he managed to force his way through and stumble down beside Rusty. He could see the stooges, inside the motel now, talking to the woman at reception but luckily none of them happened to be looking their way, and they quickly ducked down behind some trash cans.

He turned to look at Rusty. "_Really_," he snapped in a whisper. "They saw you with me. You said yourself that if they know my name they know you. You can honestly tell me that you think that if they'd found you . . . If they'd burst into that room and found you, alone and hurt and . . . " He swallowed. "You can honestly tell me that you think they'd have just shrugged and let you be?" _He_ didn't think so. He didn't think that was likely at all. From everything he'd seen so far, he thought that there would have been pain and he thought there might have been death.

Rusty was stubborn. "You should've gone."

He wasn't going to stand for that. "Look at me," he ordered and Rusty did. "If I'd left you like that, would I still be the same person you know? Would I still be your . . ." He hesitated. "Your friend?"

Somehow, Rusty couldn't meet his gaze, and Danny had to restrain himself from reaching out, offering comfort.

They both froze as the reception door opened and Steven, Willy, Bill and Harry came out, heading straight for room 4. Ducking down, he held his breath as he heard them walk past, but they didn't even seem to glance in their direction. At the sound of the door opening, he and Rusty were on their feet, running towards the reception and the exit and freedom.

Unfortunately it apparently didn't take very long to search an empty motel room and he heard the frustrated yelling, and exchange a quick glance with Rusty, and they only just had time to thrown themselves into a janitors closet before the door slammed open.

The closet door didn't shut over right and Rusty immediately crouched down to look through the gap, leaving him room to look through from above. Huh. He wondered if that sort of thing really was just instinctual for them.

He watched as Mackenzie's men walked past, Bill and Harry talking loudly.

"He can't have gone far."

"The bitch out front never said he'd gone anywhere at all."

"There was blood on the floor, maybe Dawson got to him."

"Fuck, I hope not. Mr Mackenzie will have our balls."

And then he stopped listening, because Willy and Steven walked past, in sullen silence, a step behind, and they were there, right in front of him, close enough to touch, close enough that they should be able to hear his heart beating, and the memories of pain and betrayal came close to overwhelming him, and his hand unconsciously went to his chest, and he was trembling, and he mustn't make a sound, mustn't let them suspect anything, and then Rusty's hand was on his, and they stood, still and together, until they could hear the sound of raised voices coming from reception.

"You know them," Rusty said quietly. It wasn't a question.

He nodded, and shivered suddenly. "Steven. And Willy."

Rusty's face was blank. Completely blank. But somewhere, somewhere he shouldn't be able to see, shouldn't be able to know, somewhere an unthinkable fury was burning. With strange instinct he stepped in front of Rusty, standing between Rusty and the door.

They stared at each other. Gradually the moment passed. Gradually the fire was buried a little deeper.

"They hurt you," Rusty said, low and intense.

"Actually, only Willy," he corrected. "He - "

" - _they hurt you_," Rusty said again.

"Yeah," he agreed after a moment and looking at Rusty was difficult, and desperately he tried to change the subject. "You like movies?"

Rusty blinked. "And Chinese food and long walks in the rain," he nodded. "What are you - "

" - are we sleeping together?" he demanded.

There was a long silence. Rusty stared at him. "_What?" _

He bit his lip. "Take it that's a no."

"Yes, that's a no," Rusty shook his head. "Sorry. Sorry. Just that it's quite a strange thing to be asked." He paused. "Sometimes people _think . . . _but we're not. We don't. We're just close. Very close."

Nodding, he didn't exactly understand.

"You feeling some overwhelming sexual attraction?" Rusty grinned, but the mockery was light, was reassuring.

He looked Rusty up and down, straight-faced and still letting the smile shine through. "Well you are - "

" - thanks," Rusty rolled his eyes. His expression turned serious. "Why did you ask?"

"In the alley." He hesitated. "There's this movie - " he tried.

" - the Princess Bride," Rusty nodded and closed his eyes. "Fuck."

"Right," he agreed, and quoted. "'She was amazed to discover that when he said 'As you wish, he was really saying' - "

" - yes," Rusty cut in, not letting him finish.

"Oh." He honestly couldn't think of anything else to say. _You love me. _He licked his lips. "Good movie."

"Yeah," Rusty smiled painfully.

The sound of angry voices got nearer and as one they stepped back to look out the door again. The stooges were walking past.

"Going room to room," Rusty whispered, leaning up next to his ear. "Soon as they - "

" - we run," he nodded. He was ready.

There was the sound of a door opening to their left. Room next to theirs, he'd guess, and they opened the door and quietly ran into the reception, and his fingers were to his lips, and Rusty was already holding up a fifty dollar bill, and the woman behind the desk's eyes lit up as she grabbed the bribe, and then they were through the door and away and safe.

* * *

Later, and he was lying flat out on a comfortable bed in a luxury hotel in the smarter part of town, channel hopping and listening to Rusty make phone calls. Rusty had seemed certain that they'd be able to stay here for a while before they were found. Although, he thought, glancing at the collection of empty plates spread over the table, the possibility remained that he'd just wanted someplace with room service.

They were holed up and trying to make serious plans about what to do next. Skipping town wasn't going to cut it. Apparently Dawson worked for a larger organisations with contacts all over. He wanted them found, it would happen eventually. Which wasn't acceptable. They needed to end this, somehow. But first of all, they needed to _understand_ this. And that meant finding out what it was all about. So Rusty was making phone calls.

"Okay," Rusty said at last, hanging up and flopping down onto the other bed. "I got it."

"The list?" he said, sitting up.

"Yeah." Rusty sighed. "Time for a quick history lesson. Up until recently, most of the more . . . distasteful . . . business around here was ultimately controlled by a man named Patrick Morgan. He was a vicious, paranoid, secretive bastard, right up until the point where he died last year. And since then, Mackenzie and Dawson have been scrapping over who gets to take over."

"Turf war," he nodded.

"Exactly. Now, according to rumour, Morgan used to hide a whole lot of shit for a rainy day. Drugs mostly. Money. Jewels. Whatever. Like I said, paranoid bastard. And no one knew where any of it was."

He could see this coming. He could . . . "Fuck," he groaned.

"Yeah," Rusty smiled tightly. "They think you've got the map to Blackbeard's treasure."

"How bad - "

" - couple of million worth of crack, at least. Trish wasn't certain about the rest." He paused. She says hi, by the way, but - "

" - no idea," he confirmed. "What are we going to do?"

Rusty sat up and looked straight at him. "We need to convince them that you don't have the list. That you never had the list."

"But we can't give either of them the list," he nodded.

"And even if we could, we wouldn't," Rusty added.

Yeah. They weren't going to be responsible for putting drugs on the street. Somehow, he was certain of that. "So we need - "

" - third party - " Rusty said thoughtfully.

" - neutral." he agreed.

They looked at each other. "The police?" he suggested hesitantly.

Rusty grimaced. "Has to be, doesn't it?" and he could actually understand the hesitation. Probably, in this life, getting law enforcement involved went against the grain.

He thought. "So we need to have it found at some sort of crime scene?"

"Something that we can pin on someone else," Rusty agreed. "Couple of Morgan's lieutenants are far enough underground that no one would go looking." He hesitated. "Or there's Steven."

Danny looked at him. "No," he said evenly. They weren't going to do that. He went back to the subject in hand. "What are you thinking?"

Rusty shrugged. "Bank vault. Safety deposit box."

"Explosion?" he asked intently.

"Small one," Rusty said with a grin.

"You know how to do that?" he wondered.

Rusty hesitated. "I know some," he admitted. "Not enough. I'd rather get someone else to put together the stuff. That'll cost."

He nodded. "More cons?" he asked, voice light and not quite accepting.

Rusty smiled unexpectedly. "Actually, I got a better idea."

* * *

**For those of you who don't know 'The Princess Bride' you should go watch it, or read it, because it's an excellent film and book. Ah, that wasn't actually what I meant to say. But the line that Danny quotes in its entirety would read "That day, she was amazed to discover that when he was saying "As you wish", what he meant was, "I love you." And even more amazing was the day she realized she truly loved him back."**


	9. Chapter 9

**Sorry this chapter took longer than has been. Keep getting distracted. In magpie kind of ways. **

* * *

The blade was sharp and in front of his face and keeping the fear from his eyes proved impossible.

He swallowed hard and looked up at Rusty. "You sure you know what you're doing?"

Rusty smiled reassuringly. "It's a haircut, Danny. Not a national disaster."

He was pretty sure it could be both at once. "And you've done this before, right?"

"Few times, yeah," Rusty nodded. His voice was gentle. Mocking but gentle.

Sighing he turned back to look at himself in the mirror. Hair wet. Towel round his shoulders. Rusty hovering behind him with a pair of scissors. He looked away hastily; his own face was still frighteningly unfamiliar. He sat tight and said nothing and Rusty snipped at his hair, an expression of deep concentration on his face.

Eventually Rusty stood back. "There."

He looked back up quickly. The haircut was not inspiring. He had a middle parting and a straggly fringe and generally looked even less familiar than usual. He nodded and said nothing for a few moments. Rusty was looking at him thoughtfully and he forced a tight smile in the mirror. "Thanks," he said, as lightly as he could.

Rusty nodded and turned to the sink, busying himself with the inordinate number of bottles he apparently required.

"What colour are you going for?" he asked absently.

"Brown and greying," Rusty told him without looking round.

"Greying?" he repeated involuntarily.

Rusty grinned at him fondly. "We want you to look different. Older is different."

He sighed. "Fine. But I want to at least look distinguished," he requested plaintively.

"Distinguished isn't the object here," Rusty said. "We're aiming for nondescript." Then Rusty took a step back, looked him up and down and sighed. "We may need to settle for debonair."

He tried not to smile. "Is all this really necessary?"

Rusty leaned back against the sink, his hand rubbing against his side. "I don't want to take any chances. Anything that we can do - "

" - I know that," he interrupted. "It's just . . . can't I just wear a false moustache or something?"

To his surprise and annoyance, Rusty actually laughed. "Fake facial hair is not the solution to all of life's problems, Danny."

He blinked slowly. "You've said that before . . .?" he asked uncertainly. Not that he remembered. Just that it had been in the tone.

"You've wanted a false moustache before," Rusty told him. "You don't wear them especially well."

He felt a moment of stupid annoyance. The things he didn't _know. _"Well, why don't I dye my hair blond or something?" he asked frustratedly.

"The grin was wide and disbelieving and helpless. "Blond?" You?"

"Suppose I've tried that before too?" he snapped peevishly.

"No, but I can picture it," Rusty said dreamily, laughing and clutching his side tightly.

"Glad that _one _of us can," he spat, and in an instant of restless anger, he was on his feet, his fists clenched, leaning against, the door, turning away from Rusty.

There was a few seconds of silence and then Rusty's hand was on his shoulder. "Tell me," he said softly.

For a moment the hand on his shoulder was warm and comforting and everything he wanted, and it was with a strange heaviness that he shrugged it off. "I look in the mirror and . . . and I don't _recognise _myself," he explained wildly. "Can you even imagine . . . I _hate _it. I hate it and I'm scared." He hadn't meant to say that. Hadn't meant to admit that out loud.

"Oh, Danny," Rusty murmured. He didn't say anything more. Didn't make another move to touch him. But he could _feel, _somehow, feel how close Rusty was, feel the reassurance, the sympathy, the helplessness, and eyes firmly shut, he let himself feel let himself surrender, melt into warmth and comfort and understanding. Just for a moment. Only for a moment. And just for that moment he thought that everything was going to be all right.

With a deep breath he stood up straight, turned round and smiled at Rusty. "I'm - "

" - don't," Rusty cut him off.

He nodded. No apologies. No gratitude. Not vocally, anyway.

"We don't need to do this," Rusty suggested hesitantly.

"We need to do this," he said with a frown. They did.

"Yes but . . ." Rusty shook his head. "_We_ don't need to do this. I could - "

" - no!" he said firmly. Not an option. "Not happening."

Rusty was rubbing at the corner of his mouth, watching him carefully. "I didn't take that much off your hair. Be easy to get it looking back to normal. And you could stay here. Not go anywhere near the place. Would be better." He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. "Stan said that you should stick to the familiar. Making you look like a different person is - "

" - necessary," he interrupted, frowning and determined. "You said it was necessary. I agreed. It's what we're doing, Rusty."

"Okay," Rusty nodded, looking unhappy. He held up a brush and a bottle. "I'll - "

" - yeah," he nodded and braced himself.

Half an hour later and a different stranger was looking out of the mirror at him. An older man, a man with greying hair and eyebrows, a man dressed in unflattering, unfashionable clothes.

"Here," Rusty said shortly, passing over a pair of thick glasses.

He tried them on. They made his eyes look duller, somehow. Made him look less alive.

"Good," he said wonderingly. As transformations went, it was impressive.

Rusty looked at him critically. "It should all be easy enough to reverse," he commented. "We'll need to dye your hair back, but it shouldn't cause any problems . . . "

He trailed off abruptly. Danny blinked. "What do you mean _this_ time?" he demanded.

Looking surprised, Rusty shrugged uneasily. "There was . . .you ended up with green hair once. Briefly. Very briefly."

"Green?" he asked, maybe a little louder than he should have.

Rusty grimaced. "It was more flattering than you'd think," he said defensively. "Some people just lack vision."

"Really," he began warningly. "Because - "

" - I should phone Bobby now," Rusty interrupted hastily.

He sighed and followed Rusty out of the bathroom. Green. Well. That could be a problem for another day.

Settling himself down on the bed, he listened to Rusty's phone call.

"Hi Bobby, it's me . . . well, we're not getting caught. That close enough? . . . yeah . . . yeah," He watched Rusty smile slightly, then grow serious. "Listen, Bobby, we need a favour . . . " A frown. "He's fine. Why? . . . " A deeper frown. "Oh . . . No, he's just caught up with something else. We didn't think you'd _mind _talking to . . . yeah, I know, I know." Rusty glanced up and looked at him, tension and unhappiness in his eyes. "Okay, we're looking for someone in St Louis police department who might have an interest in Harvey Mackenzie and Joe Dawson. Someone honest and competent . . . right. Right, not too competent . . . yeah? Okay . . . right . . . no, I don't know where we'll be . . . I'll – _we'll – _phone you back in a few hours. Bye, Bobby."

Rusty hung up the phone. "Fuck," he sighed.

"Problems?" he asked quickly.

"Apparently you'd normally be the one calling Bobby. I never thought of that. Never even noticed. But when it was me, he thought that you were in trouble. Don't know how far I was able to convince him. He's concerned." Rusty sighed again and rubbed at his side absently. "He's going to find out what we need. I'll call him back when we're done."

"Maybe I could?" he suggested. "Just a phone call. I might be able to - "

Rusty looked at him consideringly. "Probably not," he said regretfully after a moment. "Bobby's good. And he knows you. He'd figure out there was something, even if he didn't figure out quite what. And he'd think there was something wrong."

"There _is _something wrong," he pointed out sharply.

"I know," Rusty said seriously after a second. "And Bobby's our friend. And we trust him absolutely. But do you really want him to know?" Rusty's eyes were on him, questioning and wondering and waiting.

"No," he admitted without even hesitating.

"Yeah," Rusty agreed with a slight, sad smile. "That's the way it works." He sighed and gestured at himself. "I'm going to go - "

" - sure," he nodded.

Once Rusty was safely in the bathroom, presumably transforming himself into a caterpillar, he switched on the TV and stared blankly at the screen, not even bothering to figure out what he was watching. He tried not to think about what he was going to do next. What he needed to do next. Because he needed to _know. _He needed . . . something. Answers. Reassurance. Something. He _needed _to.

Eventually, Rusty re-emerged, and he turned to get the impression of longer brown hair and a far less memorable man.

He turned back to the TV silently, aware of Rusty watching him, aware of curiosity and concern. He didn't look round. Couldn't look round. Couldn't bear to look at Rusty. Not when he was preparing to offer hurt and betrayal and cruelty.

"You remember what you said?" he asked vacantly.

There was a hesitation. "I say a lot of things," Rusty commented lightly. "You want to be more specific?"

Somehow, he thought that Rusty had a fairly good idea what he was talking about. "Back in the motel where we first met," he clarified and winced internally at the sharp intake of breath and suppressed the urge to apologise. He hadn't _meant _to . . . "Where you found me," he corrected. "You said that if I wanted, you'd leave."

Deafening silence. "You said . . . you said if Stan said you weren't going to get your memories back," Rusty said carefully. "He didn't. He said - "

" - it's not happening though, is it?" he interrupted ruthlessly, eyes fixed, unseeing, on the TV screen. "I've got nothing."

"It's only been a couple of days. It's a bit early to - "

" - yeah," he nodded sharply, hating this. "But that's not what I mean." He had to force Rusty to think about this. "If I wanted to. How would I go about it?"

For a long moment there was nothing and he fought, with every fibre of his being, he fought the need to look round. The need to see what he was doing. "I'd help you," Rusty said at last and his voice was dull. "You'd need to change your name. I could create a new person for you to be. It's easier than you'd think. Could get you all the proper documents. Enough money to get started wherever you want. An apartment. A car. Even a job, if you wanted. It's all . . . it's all possible. If that's what you want."

"And you?" he asked, quiet and intent.

"What about me?" Rusty demanded sharply and there was something buried in his voice, wildness and anger and misery.

"Would it hurt you?" he asked, as disinterested as he could manage. "If I left. If I didn't want to be with you anymore. Would it hurt you?"

Rusty laughed lightly. "Your company isn't all that."

He winced at the transparent attempt at self defense. "Rusty," he said softly. "Would it hurt you?"

He could feel the weight of Rusty's stare. "Oh, yes," Rusty whispered. "More than anyone would ever know."

"Thank you," he said. He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. "Thank you."

* * *

For the second time in two days he was standing outside Mackenzie's building. Least this time he knew what he was doing. (_Least this time Rusty was here.) _He pretended to stare hard at the map in front of him. Lost nobodies, and no one was giving them a second glance.

At first sight, this plan was insane. But disguises worked, and as Rusty pointed out, they had a twenty K Greek pot waiting for them somewhere. If they only knew where.

"You came out this entrance," Rusty said quietly. "And they caught you two blocks that way."

"I don't remember," he said miserably.

Rusty glanced sideways at him. "We'll retrace your steps," he said, and he was clearly confident that he was going to be able to figure out the exact thoughts that had been running through Danny's mind before he was taken.

He followed Rusty obediently, keeping his head down, keeping himself hunched over and uninteresting and not looking like he was looking for anything. Rusty led them through a couple of alleyways, looking round all the time, checking a couple of abandoned cars and boarded up doorways. The route felt right. Felt like the way he might have gone, if he'd been running.

Eventually, Rusty paused in the middle of an alley, having made a couple of sharp turns. The main street was a stone's throw away. The street where, apparently, Willy, Bill and Harry had caught him three days ago.

Rusty was staring at a bunch of crates piled up in front of a doorway. "If you had a moment. If you could hear them coming," he mused, and with a grunt of pain, he scrambled up the pile of crates and reached over the doorway. "Got it!" he exclaimed, leaping down, box in hand. "Fuck," he added, a moment later, his hand pressed firmly into his side, his voice muffled and faint.

"You all right?" he asked, cautious and sympathetic.

Looking up at him, Rusty managed to smile. "Shouldn't have done that."

"No," he agreed, watching Rusty stand up. "That the - "

" - it's the box we took in, yeah," Rusty nodded.

"Good," he said and meant it. "Can we get out of here?"

Rusty grimaced. "As fast as possible."

* * *

They were back in the hotel before Rusty carefully opened the box. Eagerly, Danny peered inside. The pot was small and brown and ugly and generally didn't look like it was worth anything. "You sure that's it?" he asked curiously.

Rusty didn't answer. Rusty was staring into the box, his face a completely blank mask.

"What?" he demanded, frightened and not knowing why.

Still there was nothing.

He stared into the box himself, desperately trying to see what Rusty was seeing. All he saw was a pot, in a space carved out for it, wedged in with the aid of a folded sheet of paper. He must've stuck it in there to stop the pot from getting thrown about and damaged.

_No_.

No, that wasn't possible.

With trembling fingers, he reached in to the box, carefully lifted the paper free and unfolded it. He found himself staring at a list of map references and numbers.

"No," he whispered out loud.

Rusty was staring at him now. "You _stupid - "_

"Hey!" he objected, "You cannot be angry with me for something I can't even remember."

"Oh, let's see, shall we?" Rusty said voice low and trembling with barely-suppressed emotion. "Let's see if I can somehow find it in myself to be angry with you for this _monumental_ _fuck-up_."

"It must have been on his desk," he realised.

"No shit," Rusty snapped. "It was on his desk and you just picked it up and used it for fucking _wrapping _paper."

"We have the list," he said helplessly.

Rusty nodded, tense with anger. "We have the list."

* * *

**Oops. **


	10. Chapter 10

**Been a while since I updated this. I'm sorry. Am easily distracted. Hope you still remember this.**

**Oh, and now InSilva wants my head to explode. Feel this is mean. I am sulking. She also wants me to be forced to flee from an angry mob of unhappy readers. Sigh. And after I wrote this chapter just for you, mate.....  
**

* * *

"Guess we should get rid of this," Rusty commented, staring at the list and the anger had vanished instantaneously and he had no way of knowing whether Rusty had really forgiven him or whether it was all being remembered for some later date. However he might feel sometimes, he really didn't know Rusty at all.

"Right," he nodded uncertainly and Rusty was the one who knew what was going on, and he should just keep quiet and follow Rusty's lead. Brief as it had been, the sight of Rusty angry at him had made him think. Right now he was completely dependent on Rusty. Far as he could tell, he didn't have a _hope_ of making it on his own. And that wasn't good. Even if he was now almost – _almost – _convinced that Rusty was on his side, he still wasn't sure that his side was where he wanted to be. And more than that, he hated feeling so needy. So helpless.

Rusty frowned at him and the look in his eyes was troubled and troubling. "What?" he asked, and it didn't seem like he was going to take equivocation for an answer.

Still he shrugged. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing that matters."

An expression of frustration crossed Rusty's face fleetingly. "Danny, if I'm missing something, I need to know _what_," he explained tersely.

He nodded. "Wouldn't it be better to give the real list to the police?"

Rusty looked thoughtful and dropped down onto the chair behind him. "I don't want us holding onto it any longer than we have to," he explained.

"Why? It's not like they'd take '_I don't have it anymore' _for an answer anyway," he pointed out and his hand rubbed absently across his chest. He caught Rusty watching the movement, caught the moment of bright and unblinking and furious, and he stared until Rusty looked away.

"Yeah," Rusty said slowly. "But I don't know that we want to give the list to the police."

"I don't want that stuff on the streets," he said quietly. "The police could dispose of it."

Rusty shrugged. "It's stayed hidden this long." He was watching Danny as if he was trying to figure something out. "And we might want to pick up some of it ourselves. _Not _the drugs," he added hastily. "But there's supposed to be money. Jewels. Shame to waste the opportunity."

He stared and he was reminded again that he was a criminal. And he'd woken up and criminals had been men with guns, and they'd been Willy, Bill and Harry. Men who would hurt and kill and think nothing of it. He didn't _want _to be a part of that world. And maybe he'd come slightly too close to accepting what Rusty did – the cons, switching a novelty mug for a priceless Greek pot – because it was _fun. _Because it had amused him, intrigued him, and it was difficult to persuade the back of his mind that none of that made it okay. But this wasn't exciting. This was just picking up money that had been made from other people's misery.

Rusty watched him carefully and sighed. "We'll give the police the real list," he said, and the piece of paper vanished smoothly into his pocket.

He nodded and wondered if Rusty would destroy the list the moment his back was turned.

Rusty stared at him, unblinking. "I _said _we'd give it to the police," he said quietly. "I don't lie to you."

"I never said you were," he protested, just a hint of a glare, and they both knew he'd been thinking it.

"Yeah," Rusty said with a sigh. "Yeah. Sorry. I'd better phone Bobby."

He nodded again, slowly and watched Rusty make the phone call and vaguely listened to exasperated reassurance and increasing worry and frustration. He didn't bother listening to the details. His head was aching and he had other things to worry about. Rusty was holding out on him. Oh, not information. He didn't think. As far as he could tell. Something else. There was an extra distance, as if Rusty was choosing all his words carefully, was holding himself apart somehow. It had been ever since he'd asked Rusty if him leaving would hurt. He almost wished he hadn't. But he'd wanted – _needed – _to know how real this thing was. He'd wanted – _needed – _to know how Rusty had felt about the man he'd been. And he'd wanted to remind Rusty that he might leave, wanted to stress to Rusty that he _wasn't _dependent. All excellent reasons. Didn't make him feel better.

"Fuck," Rusty said calmly, hanging up the phone.

He looked up sharply. "Bobby still suspicious?" he guessed.

"No - well, _yes - _but that's not our biggest problem." Rusty sighed and rubbed at his mouth. "Apparently the cops are _already _interested in Mackenzie and Dawson. They've been drawing a lot of attention over the past few days. Seemingly you can't run around the streets shooting at people without the police sitting up and taking notice. Who knew?"

He digested that. "Huh," he said at last. "They going to be arrested?"

"Next few days," Rusty agreed, not looking as happy about it as he should.

"So what's the problem?" he demanded. "We sit tight, watch some movies and the problem goes away."

Rusty shot him a look. "Yeah. If we assume that the police will get everyone and that _no-one _will slip the net and come looking for a nice retirement plan." He sighed and rubbed at his side. "I'm sorry, Danny. We need the list in public, nicely beyond reach. And we need someone else to blame. And we need to move fast. I'm going to go find a good target and get the plans."

"Okay," he said, conceding in the face of certainty, and he reached for his shoes.

Rusty glanced at him and somehow it was distant and somehow that was worrying. "You stay here. Get some rest. You look tired again."

Well, that was just....He _was _tired, that was beyond question. And his head was hurting again. But that didn't mean he should stay here, safe and relaxed, while Rusty went out to do whatever. "Suppose you need help?" he asked and immediately felt stupid, wondering exactly what help he could be.

"I'm fine on my own," Rusty smiled brightly.

He flinched inside and didn't know exactly why, and, mouth dry, he said nothing more. Just watched as the door closed behind Rusty.

* * *

By the time Rusty got back with the plans, he'd watched most of The Three Amigos and half of Ghostbusters II, ate a passable lasagne, spent ten minutes trying to scrub a particularly stubborn hair-dye stain out of the bathroom and worn an inch-deep groove in the carpet pacing back and forth.

It had taken less than twenty minutes before he started worrying that Rusty wasn't coming back. An hour and he was almost sure of it.

Visions of Rusty being caught by the police had gradually faded and been replaced by thoughts of Rusty being caught by Mackenzie or Dawson, and sometimes they shot him and sometimes they tortured him until he willingly led them back to the hotel. Then, sometimes, he found himself wondering if Rusty maybe didn't even _want _to come back. It couldn't be easy, he appreciated that. Being friends with..._loving..._someone who didn't even remember you. Someone who didn't even approve of who he'd been before. And of course, _he _hated how dependent he was on Rusty right now. Who was to say that it wasn't also grating on Rusty's nerves? And he'd suggested that he was going to leave....there were lots of reasons why he might not exactly blame Rusty for wanting a break. He could only hope that Rusty would come back.

In the end, Rusty came back in the middle of an infomercial extolling the benefits of the revolutionary new leaf-blowing system. He'd stopped pacing the moment he'd heard Rusty's footsteps outside the door. (_And he'd know, __somehow, beyond all doubt, that it was Rusty he was hearing.)_ Flung himself down on the end of the bed and turned his attention to the TV and done his best to look relaxed and bored and incurious.

Still, Rusty paused, leaning against the door the moment it shut, and regarded him thoughtfully.

He had to look up, of course, and he smiled slightly and he couldn't help but notice that Rusty was paler than he had been and he looked tired. Of course, he had been shot yesterday. Probably that'd tire anyone out. "You got everything?" he asked casually, pretending not to notice anything, pretending to feel neither hurt nor relief.

"Yeah," Rusty nodded and he walked further into the room. "Got a good target. Small bank on Ninth Street. Separate vault for safety deposit boxes. On Detective Wright's patch – that's the name Bobby gave me," he added in response to the look. "And it's even got a kind of connection to Morgan. His ex partner, Donavan, used to launder money through there."

"We're setting up the ex partner?" he checked with a frown.

Rusty yawned and shrugged and winced, more or less simultaneously. "Yes," he agreed, his hand clenched in a loose fist pressed into his side. "But popular rumour has him beneath the Achmore Centre, so can't exactly do him a lot of harm. I'll start a couple of rumours tomorrow. By the time we hit the place, Donavan will have been seen in more places than Elvis."

He was paying less attention to Rusty's words and more attention to Rusty's pain. "It's worse?" he asked, nodding towards Rusty's side.

"No," Rusty told him, and it felt like a lie.

Danny sighed. "Let me see."

Rusty looked at him for a long moment. "I'm sorry I left you here tonight," he said abruptly.

"It's fine," he answered automatically, taken aback.

"No," Rusty shook his head decidedly. "It was the wrong call."

"Why then?" he asked, because he had to know and none of the reasons Rusty had given before had been the truth.

Rusty sighed and his fingers rubbed round his mouth, over and over. "I didn't want you doing anything illegal that you didn't have to. Didn't want to make you uncomfortable."

He stared and immediately he wanted to tell Rusty how _stupid _that was, but he hesitated, because there were reasons beneath that, and Rusty hadn't just been trying to keep him comfortable. Rusty had been trying to keep him _here. _"I haven't decided what I want yet, Rusty," he said gently.

Rusty nodded and his eyes were blank and he said nothing.

He hesitated, caught in a ridiculous sentimental urge and he didn't know what he wanted to say, but it had something to do with the way that Rusty made him feel, the fact that he really didn't want to lose that and his absolute confusion over what was real, over what the right thing to do was, the abnormal _need, _and the dependency that he wasn't going to give in to. And he couldn't begin to say any of that, but instead he deliberately met Rusty's eyes and wondered if Rusty's ability to read him was really as miraculous as it seemed. Wondered if Rusty would be able to understand what he couldn't tell him.

There was a moment of silence and then Rusty's eyes widened and he smiled and it was reassurance and comfort. "It's going to be alright, Danny."

He hesitated, uncertain and watchful. "You _promise?" _he asked at last.

The smile didn't fade and new layers of tenderness seemed to weave their way in. "Yeah," Rusty said softly. "I promise."

He nodded and looked away. "So what's tomorrow?" he asked brightly.

Rusty cleared his throat. "We go see Phil and Eleanor Turrentine," he explained simply. "Eleanor's still happy to buy the pot, and Phil should be able to get us the stuff we need." He glanced down at the pile of papers he'd dumped on the coffee table. "Soon as I figure out what we _do _need, anyway. They're expecting us about noon. It's a two hour drive, so you get to listen to me explaining everything they'll assume you know on the way."

He nodded again. "Then tomorrow night - "

" - we hit the place," Rusty agreed and he picked up the top bundle of papers thoughtfully. "You should really get some sleep, Danny."

"Shouldn't you?" he suggested. Because, yeah, he was exhausted and hurting. But so was Rusty.

Seemingly genuinely amused, Rusty smiled. "Not until I got this sorted."

"You want to maybe take some pain killers or something?" he asked hopefully, because he could _see _the pain in Rusty's eyes.

Rusty laughed. "Not until - "

" - you got this sorted," he finished, shaking his head and giving it up as a lost cause. "Right." He pulled the duvet back.

"You should though," Rusty told him seriously. "Take some painkillers, I mean. Your head's hurting again, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he nodded, not even surprised now that Rusty knew.

Rusty nodded and looked up at him. "Take the pills, put the cream on your chest and get some sleep," he advised.

Danny glared at him, but he did what he was told.

* * *

_He was twelve again. Sitting in the back of a car and he'd been there for a long time and he was _bored._ It was dark outside; there was no scenery to look at; and watching the windscreen wipers fight against the torrential rain had long ago lost its charm. He was _bored_ and he kicked at the seat in front of him disconsolately. The woman in front turned round and gave him a warning look. _Mom, _a voice whispered in the back of his head. _And Dad's driving. _He stared and the world seemed to freeze for a moment as memories flitted around the very edges of his consciousness, tempting and intangible and utterly out of reach. He was in a car with two people he knew to be his parents, and that was _all _he knew. He didn't know how long they'd been driving, or where they were going. He didn't know what his parents' voices sounded like. He didn't know where they lived. He didn't know his own _name._ And he was so very frightened, and it had nothing to do with his amnesia, it was something far larger than that. A vast, nameless dread, overwhelming and absolute._

"_Mom? Dad?" he began quietly, intent on begging them to stop the car, to pull in somewhere and tell him everything was fine._

_He didn't get a chance._

_The lorry filled the windscreen._

_The headlights were blinding._

_Brakes screamed._

_A bang, louder than anything he'd ever known._

_Glass breaking, metal crumpling._

_He was thrown backwards, thrown up and down, and he couldn't be sure, and there was a sickening pain, a tearing sound, a roar, and for a moment the world was upside down, and then everything was dark and silent._

_For an endless second he stayed exactly where he was, still and shocked and too terrified to move. His head was pounding and he could feel blood trickling down the back of his neck, and his arm hurt so much and he didn't even dare look at it, but that wasn't what was important._

"_Mom? Dad?" he whispered, and there was no answer. Not a sound._

"_Mom?" he said louder, begging, pleading. "Dad? Can you hear me?"_

_He squinted forwards in the gloom and he could see Mom's arm hanging limply, thrown over the back of Dad's seat. She must have been hurt. Dad too, probably. They needed help. He managed to wrench his seatbelt off, one handed, and he struggled forwards and a voice in the back of his head was screaming incoherently, begging him not to look._

_Finally, he managed to inch forwards, enough to see what was left of the front of the car, and, slowly he turned round to see his parents._

_He screamed and screamed and didn't stop._

"Danny!" The voice was frantic and he woke up and he was still screaming and his parents were dead and there was a man leaning over him and he punched out as hard as he could, and the man fell back for a moment, and then he was back almost instantaneously, his hands on his shoulders, talking insistently, soothing nonsense, and he stared and he knew he should remember, should recognise, and a second of memory flashed.

_The lights were too bright and they were underground and no matter how much he struggled he couldn't get free, and Rusty was lying on the floor, at his feet and beyond reach, and he swore viciously and the man with the knife looked up, smiled at him, and moved the knife again, blood dripping down the blade, and now it was at Rusty's throat, and Rusty opened his eyes and the knife pressed in a little closer, and Rusty's was looking straight at him, and his eyes were full of pain and goodbye, and this was it, and this was - _

He gasped and flung himself forwards and pressed in as close to Rusty as he could, taking comfort in the arms that immediately wrapped tightly around his shoulders, in Rusty's face buried in his hair, in safety and understanding and love and unending.

Tears and shaking and helplessness, and it lasted for a very long time.

Eventually, self-consciously, he pulled back and looked at Rusty. "It was real, wasn't it?" he asked and his voice was hoarse.

Rusty bit his lip. "Car crash?" he asked gently and Danny nodded jerkily. "Yeah. Yeah, it was real. I'm so sorry, Danny. Of everything you could've remembered - "

" - I didn't remember," he interrupted. "Not really. Just the crash. Nothing else. I don't know who they were, and they're _dead." _For a horrible moment he thought the tears would overwhelm him again.

Rusty gripped his hand tightly and right now he was way beyond the point of setting boundaries. "Their names were Jonas and Marie," he told Danny fiercely. "He was a doctor, she was an art teacher, though she gave it up when you were born. From everything you've told me, they loved you more than _anything. _You were spoiled rotten. In a good way."

He nodded and listened to the sincerity in Rusty's voice and it really did help. "I want to remember them," he whispered.

"You will," Rusty promised.

"I want to remember _you,_" he admitted and Rusty squeezed his hand gently. He sighed and lay down again, still smiling a little and when Rusty lay down beside him, mere inches away, every single objection he thought of turned into a fervent and unvoiced _thank you. _"I was twelve when they died?" he asked after a moment.

"Yeah," Rusty agreed quietly.

"So who took care of me after that?" he wondered, too exhausted to be truly curious.

There was a long silence and when he turned his head, Rusty was staring at the ceiling and his face was blank and still Danny could see traces of deep and far-away fury. "Your Uncle Frederick took you in," Rusty said at last. "I wouldn't say he took care of you."

He licked his lips and wondered how many memories he had that he didn't want to remember. "He - "

" - he ignored you," Rusty said, turning to look at him. "Did his best to pretend you didn't exist. He lived in the middle of nowhere – _literally _in the middle of nowhere, thirty miles from the nearest town – and you once told me that when school was out for summer, weeks could go by without you hearing a human voice."

A feeling of loneliness and isolation overwhelmed him and he honestly couldn't say whether it was memory or imagination.

With a sigh, Rusty brought his hand up to his mouth and the kiss was brief and shouldn't have felt half as good as it did.

"When you were eight," Rusty began suddenly, "You decided that you wanted to be an astronaut when you grew up. Now your Dad was always a practical man, good with his hands – it's _not _hereditary, by the way - " Rusty added with a slight grin, and Danny felt himself smiling in return. " - And the previous year he'd built you a treehouse in the yard. And the two of you decided to turn it into a lunar landing craft. He found as much machinery as he could, took the lawnmower apart, and he glued dials and knobs and levers to the inside of the treehouse, while you painted everything white. And I do mean _everything._ Then, your Mom comes out to the yard with a plate of sugar cookies _almost _in the shape of stars, a few old sheets and even more paint, and she helps you paint a moon landscape and space scenes, and you hang them over the treehouse windows." Rusty rolled on to his side, and they were looking straight into each others eyes, so close, and it felt comfortable and it felt _right._ "For the rest of the summer there were kids queueing up at your backyard, desperate for the chance to be Buzz to your Neil."

He smiled. "Thank you," he whispered and Rusty smiled at him and began another story, and eventually Danny fell asleep to the sound of his own life and the sound of comfort and love.

* * *

**Will try to update this more regularly, I promise.**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Apparently I am very blameworthy. Sigh. Am sulking. And am inclined to say that this chapter is dedicated to InSilva for _always _being a wonderful, concerned, tolerant and understanding friend. So there.**

**A/N 2: As you probably guessed from the last A/N, I have _nothing _to say about this actual chapter.  
**

* * *

He woke to an empty bed and it felt strangely wrong. Blearily he rolled over. No sign of Rusty and he knew that he'd spent the rest of the night held safe in Rusty's arms. Probably it was a good thing that Rusty was gone now though; in the cold light of day he'd probably, almost certainly, have to feel at least a little bit embarrassed at the cuddling. Maybe.

But Rusty _wasn't _there and he woke up a little more and, dealing with the sudden feeling of irrational worry, looked around for clues, sleepily. When he saw the smear of blood on the edge of the sheets, he was out of bed instantly, staring wildly round the room, and he saw the bathroom door was ajar and the light was on, and he was pushing the door open before he even thought of knocking.

Rusty was standing in front of the sink, a bloodstained bandage at his feet. He didn't look round at the sound of the door; all his attention apparently focused on scratching at his skin furiously.

Danny looked at it, wincing to himself. The bullet wound was bad enough, still livid and ragged and purpling, slathered with a fresh layer of glue, but it looked like Rusty was in the middle of attempting to remove all the skin from his hip up to his ribs. His fingernails were digging deep, leaving everything red and furious and painful.

With a hushed moan of empathy, unthinking he seized Rusty's wrist, holding it firmly away from himself. "Don't," he said softly.

There was a pause and Rusty sighed. "It _itches, _Danny,_" _he complained helplessly, and he could somehow hear the pain and misery beneath.

"Let me see," he demanded in a voice that would recognise no argument as he moved to Rusty's shoulder. Rusty didn't look round, but he let him approach, see, touch, all without objection. For once. Rusty was not, apparently, especially good at accepting help. He wondered if it was always like this.

"You had to glue it again?" he asked unhappily, his thumb smoothing over healing and glue.

Rusty nodded and stared at the sink. "Had to," he explained. "Scratched it open in the night. It _itches_."

He grimaced. "You really need a doctor, Rusty," he pleaded.

"Nah," Rusty said reassuringly and he heard the grin even if it wasn't actually pointed in his direction. "Honestly, Danny, it's not all that. I've had worse."

The image of the knife and the man and Rusty's eyes saying goodbye rose up in his mind and he wasn't quite quick enough to suppress the soft noise of pain.

Instantly Rusty span round and stared searchingly over him. "What?" he demanded.

His breath caught in his throat and he was staring too, and his hand reached up and hovered over the dark bruise on Rusty's cheek.

He'd forgotten. He'd forgotten the moment of panic and bewilderment and forgetting, had forgotten feeling threatened and punching out, and he hadn't _meant _to, and Rusty hadn't said anything.... "I did that," he said, desperate apology and numb regret in his voice.

Rusty's face fell in self recrimination and guilt. "You didn't mean to. You didn't know what you were doing."

He thought about Rusty keeping his face turned away and sighed. "How long did you think you could keep that up?"

Rusty shrugged. "Until it healed?" he said lightly. "Might not have thought it through."

"I really didn't mean to," he said quietly, and he knew Rusty knew, hell, Rusty had just got through saying the exact same thing. He still had to make it clear. "I didn't even remember that I had. I didn't even recognise you."

Nodding, Rusty didn't look like any of this was news to him. "It's okay, Danny. Really it is. Stop feeling guilty."

He stared. "Like it's that easy."

Rusty grinned and reached for the bandage on the floor. "What were you thinking just there? Before you saw?" Even though Rusty's voice was casual, even though Rusty wasn't looking at him, he knew that the question was serious.

He hesitated and wondered what the best answer was. In the end, he decided on the truth. "After you woke me, after I punched you I had a kind of flash of...memory, I guess. Or it was a hallucination." He bit his lip. "I kind of hope it was a hallucination."

"What was it?" Rusty asked quietly, turning back to look at him.

"You and me...we were underground. There were people holding on to me and you were lying on the ground and there was a man holding a knife and he'd been..." He swallowed hard. "You looked like you were saying goodbye."

Rusty nodded slowly. "It happened," he said simply. "Last year. A favour for a friend and things got complicated. Bad. We got out in the end, obviously. Luck, mostly."

He frowned. "And this is how we cho...and this is how I choose to live my life?" There was bewilderment in his voice, and he didn't _like _seeing Rusty hurting, hell, he didn't like hurting himself, and he wasn't sure what made it worthwhile.

A pause and Rusty smiled lightly. "How's your head this morning?" he asked.

"Okay," he said honestly. A little sore still, but nothing to write home about.

"And your chest?" Rusty persisted.

Ow. "Fine, as long as I don't think about it," he said with the slightest of glares.

"Sorry," Rusty grimaced. He grinned suddenly and shook his head. "Good thing about being in disguise right now? With any luck Phil and Eleanor won't notice that we're not exactly at our best."

He frowned. Because he didn't want anyone to know about his amnesia, didn't want to reveal that vulnerability, not while everyone was a stranger, but still he had to wonder. "But they're friends, right? I mean there wouldn't be any trouble if they found out?"

"Nah, they're our friends alright," Rusty assured him quickly. "Good friends. Matter of fact we introduced them, so I guess they owe us."

"We introduced them?" he blinked.

"Uh huh." Rusty nodded and he headed out into the bedroom and dressed quickly, talking all the while. "Fourteen months back. They've been married...eleven months. Yeah. Eleven. We didn't make it to the wedding; we were in the middle of something _complicated, _but we sent a present. A set of monogrammed towels. And a BMW, in case they didn't laugh."

He grinned. "Was that monogrammed?"

"Might have had personalised plates," Rusty admitted. "Hey, I wanted to get as much mileage out of Eleanor's new initials as possible."

"Understandable," he nodded sympathetically. He frowned thoughtfully. "Three months before they got married, huh? Whirlwind romance."

"Love at first sight," Rusty explained. "You'd have to see it to believe it. It was very...."

"Romantic?" he suggested, and Rusty shook his head.

"Annoying," he corrected decidedly.

Danny grinned. "You have no soul," he complained.

"You try getting the details of the sixteenth century armoire you're being commissioned to...obtain - "

" - steal - " he said, and Rusty shrugged.

" - when the woman who's supposed to be telling you can't take her eyes off your team mate," Rusty went on. "Still," he added seriously. "I managed to add another couple of zeros to the price while she was distracted."

He blinked and looked at Rusty's face carefully and uncertainty faded in a heartbeat. "You did _not,"_ he said firmly.

Rusty laughed. "No, I didn't," he agreed lightly. "Though I swear I was tempted to after we spent the next three weeks trying to get Phil to blow stuff up while he wondered if Eleanor had noticed him, and asked us if we'd noticed that her hair is the exact colour of paprika - "

He choked. "_ - Paprika?"_

Rusty waved a hand. "Closer analysis, he meant cinnamon. Anyway, it was all very annoying."

"And in the end they got together?" he asked.

"Straight after the job," Rusty confirmed. "Might have been helped by the fact that we took a few days at the end to go help Phil pick her out a present." He smiled fondly. "Some women like flowers, some women like jewellery, some women like love poems. And some women like a guy who'll blow a hole beneath the antiquities section of the art museum and steal her an eighteenth century lute."

He laughed, but on some level he was wondering at the look on Rusty's face. "So what now?" he asked.

Rusty shrugged. "Got a couple of phone calls to make before we head out. But first - "

" - breakfast," he nodded understandingly, and Rusty smiled at him.

* * *

Two hours drive and by the time they pulled up outside the large house in the middle of nowhere his head was starting to hurt again. Too much movement, probably. Or too little air. Or too much effort trying to remember every place and time he'd ever met Phil and Eleanor Turrentine. Something.

They'd hired a car and he had a feeling that Rusty was deferring to his sensibilities. Problem was, _he'd _been assuming that they'd steal one, and he didn't know quite when he'd got to thinking like that.

Rusty turned the engine off and looked at him for a moment before passing the painkillers over. "Take one."

He did and watched the way Rusty was sitting stiffly and he could see, somehow, the effort Rusty was putting in to not scratching, and he gave the pills back with a significant look. "Why don't you?" he suggested. It had taken him until halfway through breakfast to realise that he'd been led firmly away from all thoughts of guilt and all thoughts of doctors. And Rusty had refused point blank to restart the discussion. Stubborn didn't begin to cover it.

"I'm good," Rusty told him. "Doesn't hurt. Just itches like crazy."

He nodded and accepted and reached into the back seat for the box containing the pot. A minute later they were ringing the doorbell, and moments after that a tall man with a deep tan and a long, bleached-blond ponytail was ushering them through to the sitting room. Phil Turrentine, he assumed, going by logic and Rusty's descriptions. Maybe about thirty. Looked like he belonged on a beach, waxing a surfboard.

"Guys! Haven't seen you in an age," Phil beamed. "Not since that thing in Connecticut, you remember.

Rusty had told him. A round table con and a collection of sapphire jewellery. He grinned. "Fun times."

"We figured we'd better stay away until the bite marks had faded," Rusty added, and he and Phil both laughed.

"Eleanor will be down in a minute," Phil told them. "She's just finishing up a phone call. In the meantime why don't you show me the plans and we'll figure out what you need?"

He watched silently as Rusty got the plans to the bank out and started explaining the situation to Phil, omitting to mention Mackenzie or Dawson, or being shot and shot at, or being hit on the head and tortured. By the end of it Phil was frowning. And he didn't get the impression it was anything to do with the bank.

"All sounds straightforward enough," Phil assured them absently. "Should be able to put something together for you no problem." He stared from one to the other of them. "Look. I know it's...are you guys arguing?" He sounded incredulous.

With an effort he managed to keep his face blank. Obviously Phil had figured that something was wrong. Something must be different and he had no idea what. "No," he said, sounding puzzled, and he resisted the urge to look at Rusty.

"Of course not," Rusty added and there was – hopefully – disarming amusement in his voice. "When do we ever?"

"Well, never," Phil agreed unhappily and Danny managed to keep his surprise fairly well hidden. _Never? _"Right," Phil went on, still sounding unconvinced. "I'd better go and see what's keeping Eleanor."

As soon as Phil left the room he leaned in close to Rusty. "What - "

Rusty shook his head quickly and an instant after he heard the voices outside the door. Uneasy, murmured conversation. Rusty grimaced. "Just act like nothing could possibly be wrong," he hissed.

He nodded and worried and a moment later the door opened and Phil walked into the room followed by the most glamorous woman he could remember seeing. And yes, he was prepared to concede that her hair was indeed cinnamon coloured. She was also about a decade older than he'd unconsciously been expecting. In her late thirties at least. Huh. Rusty hadn't mentioned that Phil was by way of being a toy boy.

"Danny," she smiled and shook his hand warmly. "It's lovely to see you again. Even with such an awful haircut."

"Hello Eleanor," he smiled and went for charmingly friendly.

Phil looked startled. "Oh, yeah, you're in disguise. I hadn't noticed."

"Which is why you're not a surveillance guy," Rusty told him.

Eleanor turned quickly to Rusty and with a startling, sudden movement, threw her arms around him and hugged him close. Danny couldn't help but blink, a little shocked, and he noticed Phil looking suspicious – not at Rusty and Eleanor as he might expect, but at _him. _Quickly he concentrated on looking calm and unruffleable and Eleanor stepped back from Rusty and smiled happily. "Rusty. Oh, it's been too long. And have you been keeping out of trouble?" Her eyes were fixed on the bruise on Rusty's face.

Rusty grinned. "Of course. What do you take us for?"

"Oh, I know exactly what you are," Eleanor said dryly. "I've known you far too long to expect even the slightest hint of common sense."

Rusty looked injured. "Eleanor, we are the - " He hesitated fractionally, as if he was automatically expecting something that wasn't forthcoming. " - the very model of uncommon sense," he finished brightly.

Eleanor nodded slowly and looked from one to the other of them sharply. Then she dropped down onto the armchair behind her and sat straight, her hands folded in her lap. Behind her, Phil leaned casually against the door. "Now, boys," Eleanor began crisply. "Why don't the two of you sit down and explain exactly what's really going on?"

There was a pause. "Mrs Turrentine, you're trying to intimidate us, aren't you?" Rusty asked cheerfully, and Danny bit his lip.

Eleanor sighed and relaxed slightly. "Dustin Hoffman isn't getting you out of trouble this time, Rusty," she said firmly. "What's going on?"

He waited, tense, and when Rusty looked at him, he nodded. Not like they had many other options at this point.

"Danny had...an accident," Rusty said carefully. "He can't remember anything."

There was a moment of stunned silence and Phil and Eleanor stared at them blankly. "_Anything?" _Eleanor asked finally.

He nodded tightly. "Woke up knowing nothing. Not even my name."

Phil was grinning in a way that hovered between unease and bewilderment. "So you don't remember us? I mean, you don't know who we are?"

"Right," he agreed.

The grin turned to a frown. "But you remember Rusty, right?"

He didn't say anything. Rusty shook his head briefly.

There was another long moment of silence. Then a lot of questions.

* * *

By mutual consent, they pulled into a roadside diner on the way back. It had been an exceptionally long few hours and he knew beyond all doubt that Rusty was just as worn out as he was. His head was hurting and he kept needing to glare at Rusty in order to keep him from scratching, and they were both _tired._ Coffee, and lots of it, would help with the drive back. Burgers and fries would just generally help.

Eleanor and Phil had been concerned. Exceedingly concerned. Exhaustingly concerned. And neither of them had looked at him in quite the same way after. Like neither of them had any real idea how to react, how to talk to him. He supposed the whole situation was weird, but it didn't make him feel better. And he could _see _how it was angering Rusty and he had to surreptitiously glare for a long moment until he could be confident that Rusty wasn't going to say anything.

But there had been a lot of unhappy questions and it had taken a lot of fast talking – on Rusty's part – to assure them that, yes, it wasn't permanent, and yes, they knew what they were doing, and of course Danny had seen a doctor, and really everything was under control.

_He'd _just sat still and nodded wherever it seemed appropriate and listened to Rusty talk Phil and Eleanor out of coming back with them and bringing the discussion back round to business. Eventually Phil had got them the explosives that he and Rusty had agreed they needed, and then Eleanor and Rusty had negotiated a price for the pot while Phil wandered through a barrel-load of reminsces, apparently certain that just one more story would somehow trigger Danny's memory. It was very wearing and somehow upsetting, and he found himself longing for the calm understanding that was Rusty. Better when it was just the two of them.

Eleanor had hugged Rusty again before they left. Tight and affectionate and it wasn't simply a gesture between friends. There was something more there. He glanced across the table and watched Rusty trail a handful of fries through ketchup and wondered. "So you and Eleanor..." he began.

Rusty looked over at him quickly and there was the first hints of an unhappy frown there.

He lowered his eyes. "Sorry. Not my business."

A second later and Rusty reached across the table and put his hand on Danny's. "There isn't anything in my life that isn't your business, Danny." He sighed and drew his hand back. "Just that it's strange sometimes. The things you don't know. Me and Eleanor we...well, we used to..." He stopped.

"Date," Danny nodded understandingly. It made sense. Eleanor was very beautiful and Rusty was...well, Rusty was.

There was shocked silence and Rusty stared at him unblinking. "_Date?! _Me and _Eleanor?" _His voice was loud and disbelieving. Then he frowned. "Huh. Well. I suppose. You could look at it that way, I guess. Sort of." He shook his head slowly. "Still. Me and Eleanor?"

He bit his lip. "So what is the story?" He wanted to know. Because he didn't remember, and he wanted to. He wanted to know everything.

Rusty stared down at the cup of coffee in his hand. "I met Eleanor when I was seven," he said finally.

"She used to babysit you?" he guessed.

A little more attention was paid to the coffee. "See, the thing you have to understand is there are rules to what we do. I mean, there are things we'd _never _do, not in a million years. Things that no one we'd associate with would ever do. Things that set up anyone who does do them as targets to be taken down as hard as possible."

He watched Rusty uneasily, convinced that this was going to be bad.

Rusty sighed. "I was working with the Fowler gang at the time," Rusty went on distantly.

And that was wrong. That was very wrong. "Wait," he interrupted. "You said you were seven?"

"Yeah," Rusty nodded, still not looking at him. "'Working with' is probably the wrong way to put it. I was just one of their tools. They were a housebreaking outfit. Sometimes it's hard to get a greaseman." He looked up sharply and Danny nodded his understanding of the term and silently begged Rusty to keep eye contact. Rusty smiled very briefly but still looked down again. "Anyway, sometimes people – people who don't follow the rules – use kids instead. Force little kids to squeeze through small windows and wait in tiny spaces and open doors for them."

"That's what they made you do?" he asked horrified.

Rusty nodded and grabbed blindly for a handful of fries. "Fowler was sorta like Sikes, you know?" he said lightly, as if it was nothing.

Inside Danny was screaming at the idea and some part of him was thinking about the coercion that would be used to _force _a child – to force Rusty – and another part was thinking about how anyone using a child like that would want him to stay as small and skinny as possible. He stared at the food in Rusty's hand and he pushed his own plate a little nearer, just in case Rusty got hungry and wanted the rest of his fries too. He swallowed. "Think I never did like Dickens," he said, as casually as he could manage.

"I was thinking of the movie," Rusty answered, looking up with a smile that was nowhere near his eyes.

"With the singing?" he blinked.

Rusty looked confused. "Nah, the cartoon."

Danny thought about that for a moment. "So you're comparing yourself to a fluffy, orange kitten?"

He got a decided glare but Rusty's lips were twitching and this time the amusement had reached his eyes. "I was just one of the ways that Fowler was breaking the rules. Got so that not many people would work with him. Matter of fact, people were working to try and take him down. Which was where Eleanor's father came in."

Rusty had come to a halt and Danny nodded encouragingly, and he wanted to reach across and take Rusty's hand again, but he was very conscious of the guy behind the counter who'd been looking curious since they came in. Rusty sighed. "Eleanor's father was a fence. Not like Eleanor, more general. As happy to deal in stolen TVs as antiques. Her mom was an archaeologist; think that's where Eleanor got the urge to specialise. Anyway, Eleanor's father – George – was part of the plan to take Fowler's gang down. Started by earning his trust. Had the whole gang in his warehouse twice a week for two months, selling whatever we'd stolen and then they'd all play poker and get drunk for the rest of the night." Rusty's eyes were far away. "Eleanor was home from college at the time, learning the business. While the rest were drinking next door, she'd take me downstairs, give me a hot meal, and we'd play hide and seek or watch TV." He smiled slightly. "She taught me to read, Danny. I owe her a lot."

He looked across the table, met Rusty's eyes, and he wondered if last time, when he'd heard this story before, if he'd known what to say. Wondered if he'd known how to give voice to the feelings of sympathy and misery and anger and helpless protectiveness that surged through him.

Rusty smiled gently. "I _know, _Danny," he said.

He nodded. "What happened with Fowler?" he asked quietly.

Rusty shrugged. "We all got caught with a lot of stolen goods. They all went to the pen, after a lot of discussion with the police, the courts and social services, I was sent to an orphanage. Years later, when I was back in the world, Eleanor's father was one of the people I went to look up. By that time, Eleanor had taken over the business. She remembered me. Introduced me around. Found me some people who'd teach me what I wanted to know."

"Good," he said and meant it. Still, he couldn't see where the sort-of-dating had come in.

Rusty smiled. "Little after that," he explained.

He frowned and realised that he'd stopped being bothered by Rusty's mind reading thing sometime ago. Which was just as well, since Rusty's efforts to stop had been completely unsuccessful. "What happened."

There was a grimace. "Starts with a girl. Charlene. About six months before we met. She was beautiful. Amazing. I really liked her and I thought she really liked me but she kept saying her parents would never approve. Her family had money, or at least more than I did. We dated for a while, if you could call it that. She hated my neighbourhood, and she wouldn't hear of us going anywhere we might bump into someone she knew. So we went to places she thought were tough and down at heel. Guess I was her teenage rebellion."

Danny could see in Rusty's eyes the shadow of a teenage boy who'd been made to feel not good enough and he hated it. He hadn't known Rusty long but that didn't stop him from understanding exactly what _amazing _meant. And from everything he'd learnt – from Stan, from Phil and Eleanor, from Rusty himself – Rusty was the most important person in his life, and he didn't like to think that anyone could ever see Rusty as being any less than he was.

Rusty smiled at him, acknowledging the feelings. "I was stupid. Got caught up in this Romeo and Juliet delusion. Went to see her father, convinced that if I just talked to him he'd be able to see my sincerity and give us his blessing. Charlene knew nothing about it, of course."

"I imagine _that _went well," he commented, wincing.

"Her boyfriend was especially impressed," Rusty nodded.

He frowned, a gathering storm. "She - "

" - _ohhh_, yeah," Rusty agreed with a painful grin. "They'd been seeing each other for over a year. He was round for Sunday dinner. Looked at me like I was a cockroach from the wrong side of the tracks. And Charlene, the look on her face when I walked in..." He trailed off, shaking his head, and it was old pain and humiliation. "Her dad was actually pretty reasonable about it. Convinced that his little girl couldn't have done anything wrong, of course. But he took me into his study and gave me a long talk. Condescending as hell, thought I was some kind of pathetic, mentally-deficient love-sick fool, worshipping his daughter from afar. He gave me the bus fare home and made it clear that if he saw me again he'd call the police. And that was that. I crawled home and didn't go outside for a couple of weeks. Too embarrassed to show my face."

He bit his lip and found himself wishing that he'd been there. Wishing that he'd been able to comfort Rusty, to take care of him.

Rusty looked at him thoughtfully and smiled. "Eventually Eleanor came along and dragged me out of myself – I'd missed a couple of valuation lessons she was meant to be giving me. She listened to the whole, sorry story and then stood over me until I showered and dressed and hauled me out to buy me ice cream and asked me what I wanted to do about it." He grinned, genuine wonder and affection visible. "Next three weeks she took me out every night. Expensive restaurants, exclusive clubs, VIP events – all sorts of places that I'd never have even thought of trying to get into before. And at the end she took me to some banker's ball that we knew Charlene's family were going to be at. Made damn sure that she was the most beautiful woman in the room and made damn sure I looked good in a tux. We danced together all night and didn't look at Charlene once. And that's about as close to dating as we ever got, and really dating was the last thing it was about. She taught me how to blend in. Real Professor Higgins."

He grinned slightly. "Which makes you - "

" - Eliza," Rusty agreed, rolling his eyes. "Thank you." He grew serious. "She's been a good friend to me over the years. And as long as I don't remind her that she's known me since I was seven and I'm all grown-up now, she'll carry on being a good friend to us."

Danny watched him for a long moment and thought about absolute trust and honesty. Rusty hadn't needed to tell him the story. But he had. Because Danny had asked. There was so much that didn't make sense still, so many ways in which he still had no clue who he was or what he wanted, so many things that he still found wrong and troubling. But this trust, this loyalty, this unconditional everything that Rusty offered so freely – he wanted to be worthy of that. He wanted to spend the rest of his life being worthy of that, trying his best to return that.

He reached out and held Rusty's hand tightly across the table, completely unconcerned by any attention they might attract, only aware of the silent promise he was making.

* * *

**Believe that there are about, oh, three more chapters of this story? **


	12. Chapter 12

**Another story building to a conclusion. Soon I will have nothing else to write. Well. I would, if I didn't keep starting new things. Sorry about that.**

**Oh, and once again I'd like to thank InSilva for being wonderful and supportive and reassuring. Because she is.  
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*****

If he'd thought about it anytime over the last few days, he'd probably have had a very definite mental picture of a bank robbery. It probably would have involved guns. People screaming. Burly, angry men with stockings over their faces ordering frightened cashiers to bundle up the money. Sirens. Going down in a hail of bullets. That sort of thing.

It almost certainly wouldn't have involved giggling with Rusty at the mirrors on every single ceiling in the empty apartment they'd broken into.

"Why the kitchen?" he wondered and Rusty smiled.

"You're so conventional,," he murmured.

It probably wouldn't have involved him gripping Rusty's gloved hands tightly, being lowered out of the bedroom window onto the roof of the bank below. Wouldn't have involved spinning round to catch Rusty. Certainly wouldn't have involved him holding onto Rusty a few seconds longer than he strictly had to.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I'm fantastic," Rusty grinned.

He wasn't deterred. "How's the side?"

"How's the chest?" Rusty answered back immediately. "How's the head?"

He sighed and let go. "When we're done here you should give Stan a call," he suggested hopefully.

"When we're done here we should go for ice cream," Rusty corrected with a broad smile.

It probably wouldn't have involved the metal box that, to his amnesiac mind, looked exactly like a metal box. Probably wouldn't have involved Rusty opening the box with practised ease, selecting two wires from the muddle and neatly cutting them.

"Alarms and ...cameras," Rusty said happily.

He stared. "That's _it?" _he asked incredulously.

"Uh huh." Rusty turned his head and grinned back at him. "Livingston wouldn't stop laughing when I described the set-up to him last night. Well. Once he'd got through explaining that normal people don't regard three o'clock in the morning as a sensible time for a chat."

He smiled and considered the gulf between Rusty and normality. "Another friend?" he asked.

"Yeah," Rusty agreed, crossing over to the skylight and easing it open. "Good one."

"How many friends do we have?" he wondered. There seemed to be an inexhaustible flow of names.

Rusty looked up at him. "We're people people," he explained, fixing the rope to the edge of the skylight.

It almost certainly wouldn't have involved lowering himself down into an office, narrowly avoiding knocking over a menacing rubber plant and following Rusty down three flights of narrow stairs to the ground floor. He looked round. Yup. Counters. Reinforced main entrance over there. Large door leading to more stairs and, presumably, eventually, the vault. Finally everything that would have been in his mental picture. Except the guns. Except the frightened people. Except everything.

If he'd thought about it at any time, he probably wouldn't have imagined that robbing a bank was _fun. _Of course, technically, they weren't actually robbing the place. He glanced over at Rusty, crouched in front of the door. Somehow, he doubted that was the reason why.

"What?" Rusty asked, without looking round.

"We're robbing a bank," he explained. "Thought there'd be more stockings."

He could sense the grin, somehow. "Didn't go with my shoes," Rusty told him and the door swung open and they sauntered downstairs.

Okay. There was a desk in front of a bunch of filing cabinets, a room full of safety deposit boxes behind an iron cage and a large vault door. Looking exactly like vaults did in every movie he couldn't actually remember seeing. He grinned, a little disbelievingly.

"Well, get to it," Rusty told him, opening the door to the safety deposit boxes open. "We need an empty box."

A minute or so later and he found one. "Box 505," he called, and he turned round to see Rusty leaning against the wall, rubbing at his side.

He glared and Rusty looked up guiltily. "Sorry," he muttered and he stepped over and started filing papers in the box. Copies of the plans and maps they'd used to break into Mackenzie's office. Documents linking Donavan to Morgan, all carefully forged that evening. The list itself, which Rusty carefully laid on top along with a little velvet pouch.

"What's that?" he asked curiously.

"Diamonds," Rusty explained simply.

He stared. "_Diamonds_?"

"Three," Rusty nodded. "Not expensive but not nothing either. Got them from Eleanor."

He stared some more.

"We paid for them," Rusty added defensively.

"Diamonds," he repeated disbelievingly.

Rusty sighed. "Adds authenticity," he explained. "Makes the story that bit more believable. Nobody - "

" - nobody throws diamonds away." He got it suddenly and smiled approvingly. And a treasure map was always going to be more believable when there was treasure.

"Exactly." Rusty smiled at him briefly. "You wanna - "

" - uh huh," he agreed, and he carefully started opening safety deposit boxes and spreading their contents out. Set dressing. A frantic search interrupted. After half an hour, he looked at his work and figured it was good. "We done?" he asked, looking over and seeing Rusty filing a bunch of papers away.

"Yep," Rusty agreed. "Box 505 is now owned by Donavan." He glanced into the safety deposit room. "Nice to see you haven't lost your talent for making a mess."

He blinked. "Should I be taking that as a compliment?" he asked suspiciously.

"Only if you want to," Rusty answered innocently.

He shook his head. "Vault?" he suggested.

"Vault," Rusty nodded.

They wandered over.

"That is a very big door," he said decidedly.

Rusty nodded and set to work applying explosives to the very big door.

He watched with interest and didn't even think about moving further away.

"You sure it's not going to open it?" he asked curiously.

"Phil says no," Rusty told him absently, adding fuses. "Doesn't really matter if it does, as long as it sets the alarm off."

"You sure it'll set the alarm off?" he checked, and at this stage it was entirely possible that he was just being annoying.

Rusty certainly looked like he thought so. "Told you. It's on a separate circuit." He set the fuse. "Twenty minutes. Shall we?"

He glanced round. "Think we're done here."

They headed back the way they came at a rapid amble, leaving the apartment with about ten minutes to spare and heading for the payphone four blocks over.

He stood and listened to Rusty's side of the phone call. "Am I speaking to Lieutenant Wright? Good. Good evening, Lieutenant. I understand that you're taking an interest in Patrick Morgan's successors. I wonder if you'd be interested in knowing that Donavan is planning on sweeping the pot tonight." There was a pause and Rusty smiled. "Oh, rumours of his death are somewhat exaggerated. In fact at this very moment he's taking part in a bank robbery on Ninth Street. Get there quickly and you should be in time before he makes off with the bank's money and a list of Morgan's property that Dawson and Mackenzie have been looking for rather violently." Rusty frowned suddenly and glanced over at Danny, his eyes troubled. "Oh, I'm just trying to help our boys in blue. Think of me as a good Samaritan. Good night, Lieutenant Wright."

He hung up the phone and glanced over at Danny, still frowning slightly. "That was weird," he said slowly, starting to walk along the street.

"What?" he checked, following quickly.

"Just at the end there, there was a kind of clicking on the line. Like the call was being recorded. Traced, maybe."

Huh. That would be surprising. And not part of the plan. "You sure?"

"Honestly? No." Rusty sighed and rubbed at his mouth. "Don't think it's a problem."

"Right," he agreed. Probably it wasn't. They were supposed to be well away from the whole thing now. The cops would find the list, they'd find evidence tying Donavan to the robbery at Mackenzie's place and by the time Dawson and Mackenzie were arrested the stories, rumours and conspiracies would be everywhere. The world could play motive roulette and he and Rusty wouldn't be mentioned.

"Exactly," Rusty agreed, and there was still just a hint of unhappiness.

He grinned; Rusty never liked loose ends of any kind.

_Rusty never...?_

An avalanche of memories swept over him.

_It was midnight and he was running along the street and he could hear footsteps pounding behind him and he was exuberant and terrified and the sidewalk was crowded with faceless people and his pursuer was getting impossibly closer, and he was preparing himself for the pain. Then, out of nowhere, he was looking straight at a pair of vivid blue eyes and he found himself smiling helplessly in the face of beauty that shone like nothing he'd ever known, and then the thug was sprawled in a heap of limbs and gravel, and he was looking at Rusty, laughing with Rusty for the very first time, and the air was alive with sunshine and spark and immediate, unstoppable, uninhibited and undeniable love._

Far away, he'd dropped to his knees in the street and Rusty was calling his name, shocked and anxious. "Danny!"

_A house that they were supposed to be robbing, but Rusty had fallen in love. In the garage. And Rusty had stared longingly at the Mustang and Danny had sighed and smiled and laughed a little, and three weeks of plans had gone up in smoke, and when Rusty ran a hand over his new car and looked up at Danny, delight and disbelief and deep, unfathomable wonder shining through his soul, Danny knew that it was absolutely, unquestionably worth it._

"What's wrong?" Rusty demanded in the future, his hand pressed to Danny's face. "Danny, tell me. What's going on? Is it your head? Talk to me. _Please."_

_A roof garden and they were lying beneath invisible stars and he watched with unmasked wonder as the paper snowflakes danced in the warm breeze, and he looked over at Rusty and he'd understood_ _so much, and Rusty's eyes were tender and his smile was perfect, and how could Danny ever want anything more?_

"Come on, Danny," Rusty was urging him somewhere, and there was an arm wrapped around his shoulders, another round his chest, dragging him upwards, pulling him down the street. "It's okay. You're okay. It's okay."

_They were running down an escalator the wrong way together, smiling, laughing, and people were scattering in front of them and somewhere behind them there was yelling and somewhere waiting ahead of them there was danger, and here and now there was Rusty._

A door opened and Rusty hauled him inside and there were voices babbling and he was sitting on a bar stool.

_He was lying in an uncomfortable bed, surrounded by tissues and medicines and abandoned cartons of juice, and his head hurt and breathing hurt and everything hurt and Rusty perched on the edge of the bed and smiled down at him. "Chicken soup!" he announced proudly, waving a bowl. "Made from chickens!" Danny managed one spoonful before his stomach rebelled and Rusty got him into a nice warm bath and got him into clean clothes and fresh sheets, and he lay still and miserable, clinging to Rusty and trusting him to make everything better, and he never even once thought of having to say thank you._

"Brandy, quickly," Rusty demanded. "My friend's sick."

"Yeah, right," the barman scoffed and Rusty flung a handful of notes across the bar.

"Now!" he snapped.

_The storm was overhead, the rain was pouring down and every step was heavy and every step was painful. He did his best to support Rusty's weight and keep the pressure on the worst of the knife wounds and they stumbled on, and he cursed Lanzecki's name. After a time he realised that Rusty was saying something and, still frightened, he leaned in closer. Rusty smiled dizzily up at him and carried on singing tunelessly. "Laughing at clouds, so dark up above...."_

_Danny grinned. "We are not even trying the dance," he told Rusty firmly._

A glass was at his lips and he gulped at it quickly and the brandy burned his throat.

He stared up at Rusty. _His _Rusty. His best friend, his partner, his brother. The other half of his soul. His _everything. _

Rusty was staring back, his eyes wide and fearful. "I'm going to call - "

" - don't leave," Danny interrupted, grabbing his hand firmly. Don't ever leave.

Still frightened, still anxious, Rusty nodded. "Okay."

"I remember you," he blurted out.

Rusty blinked. "Danny, I swear to god, if the next words out your mouth are 'You're the one who made my dreams come true'...."

He was.

"I _remember _you," Danny said again, and there were tears in his eyes and he was on his feet, his arms wrapped round Rusty, holding him tight and holding him close, as if he wanted to make up for every last second that had passed without love, without trust, without knowledge and connection. "I remember you," he whispered insistently

Rusty hugged him back and it was just as thankful, just as relieved, just as intent on being everything they should be. "_Danny," _he murmured happily and then. "You remember everything?"

He took a step back, still holding onto Rusty's arms but letting Rusty see his face. "Nah," he admitted. "You're all I've got." His smile was contented and his eyes were shining. "I'm strangely okay with that."

The sight of Rusty smiling at him like _that _sparked so many old new memories, and the joy of being alive burned bright between them.

"Well, well, well." Steven sneered from the doorway and Willy, Bill and Harry were spread out around him, their guns aimed straight at Danny's chest. "We've found you at last. Mr Mackenzie _will _be pleased."

* * *

**Cliffhanger. Yeah. Oh well. **


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Been a while since I updated this...the last chapter ended with Danny regaining his memories of Rusty and then Steven, Willy, Bill and Harry appearing in a bar with guns. **

* * *

People were screaming. Danny had to admit that seemed a fairly sensible reaction to the appearance of men with guns. He supposed that they should be grateful that so far, no-one in the bar seemed to have produced a gun of their own. The last thing he needed right now was to be involved in a shoot-out at the OK Corral.

"Everyone shut up!" Willy yelled, waving his gun at the rest of the bar. "All you people, down on the floor!"

There was a moment of frightened shuffling, and then they were the only ones left standing.

Steven was looking from Danny to Rusty, a slight smile on his face. "Well, well, well. Guess you've remembered who you are, huh? Unless you're going to try and tell me that you just make friends _really _easily?"

He was. He really, really was. He let go of Rusty's arms and stepped back immediately. "I just met him today," he insisted, and oddly enough that was almost true, from a certain point of view. "He doesn't know anything."

"Uh huh." Steven laughed disbelievingly. "I don't even smile at my old lady like that."

"Well you don't have to with blow-up dolls," Rusty remarked understandingly and Danny grinned.

"No _wonder _he's looking so deflated," he commented.

Steven took a threatening step forwards. "The next guy who makes a funny remark is getting a bullet. We clear?"

Like crystal. He nodded silently. Rusty just smiled and Danny remembered telling him about Steven and about Willy and the feeling of dread was immense and the silent plea was immediate.

"Good," Steven glanced over his shoulder at Bill, Willy and Harry. "Cuff 'em and stick them in the van."

There was a moment of uncertainty.

"_Both _of them?" Bill said eventually.

"Yes, both of them," Steven replied with exaggerated patience. "The other one might know something. And besides, this one seems attached to him."

Danny managed to keep the moment of agony hidden. They were going to take Rusty because of him. He'd only just remembered Rusty, only just got Rusty back in his head, and it wasn't supposed to go like that.

Bill frowned unhappily. "But...we only got one pair of handcuffs."

Danny resisted the urge to look at Rusty. Resisted the urge to share in the moment of incredulity and mild hysteria.

"Do I have to think of _everything?" _Steven demanded, snatching a woman's purse off the floor. With a quick movement he tore the strap and handed it to Bill. "Use that! Or do I need to tell you how to tie a knot as well?"

"Leather," Rusty remarked. "Kinky. And then Bill was standing beside Rusty, pulling his hands behind his back, and Danny felt the brush of steel against his own skin and Willy was twisting his wrists painfully.

"You made us look like idiots, you know that?" Willy hissed.

"Didn't know you needed any help," Danny managed, and the punch was both sudden and expected and he doubled up painfully.

He stood up just in time to see Bill holding Rusty back, and he glared at Rusty, silently conveying the message that maybe taking on someone with both hands tied behind his back wasn't the _best _idea Rusty had ever had.

Rusty listened to him and Danny tried not to let the joy of memory shine too vivid.

* * *

They were bundled into the back of a van waiting outside, and Danny could remember that this had happened before, once, sometime, but he couldn't remember times or faces or consequences, just fear and worry and Rusty, sunshine in the fog.

"_Danny." _Rusty whispered his name urgently and he realised that he was standing in the middle of the floor and, by the scowling and the muttering, Willy and Bill would quite like it if he sat down right about now.

The doors were closed. There was no opportunity that he could see and he sat down heavily beside Rusty and acknowledged the worry without looking, offered reassurance as best he could.

"So sorry, gentlemen," he said, smiling brightly at the guns in their hands. "I was waiting for someone to offer to take my hat."

Willy frowned suspiciously. "You're not wearing a hat."

"Really?" Danny asked, wide-eyed.

"Will you shut up back there?" Steven bellowed from the front. "Don't talk to them. Don't listen to them. And if they give you any trouble, shoot the friend."

Danny kept his face blank. There'd be no trouble. Rusty was all he had, all he needed, and anxiety and protective instincts raged fiercely and he was aware of Rusty glancing uneasily at him.

"Thought you said that the friend might know something," Bill called through.

"Well, shoot him in the leg," Steven answered irritably.

The van was moving. Danny did his best to brace himself against the wall and against Rusty.

Rusty.

It was difficult to focus on anything else. Five days of nothing, of scrabbling desperately for even the smallest of memories, of knowing _nothing, _of trusting _nothing, _and now his mind was swamped with image and emotion, and he could barely look at Rusty for fear of being overwhelmed.

Now he couldn't even imagine how he couldn't have known who Rusty was immediately. He should've been able to sense it. The knowledge seemed as solid as stone and as incontrovertible as gravity, and he looked back over the last few days with a feeling of horror and confusion. He remembered the first time Rusty had found him, remembered the suspicion and the accusation. He remembered trying to run away from Rusty, remembered telling Rusty that he didn't want to know him. He remembered Rusty getting _shot _and thinking he'd known, and he'd been concerned but he hadn't been...

He frowned. Glanced quickly over to the other side of the van. Willy and Bill were wrapped up in their own conversation. Good.

He glared at Rusty. "Superglue?_" _he hissed.

Rusty looked momentarily puzzled then unrepentant. "Yeah. It worked."

Danny looked at him. His elbow was pushed in tight against his side. Like he desperately wanted to scratch but couldn't. "_Superglue?" _he whispered again. "You know - "

" - this really the time to be having this conversation?" Rusty interrupted quickly.

They really didn't have anything else to do. And this was fresh in his head. "You know damned well that if I'd _known..._" He paused. "If I'd been myself I'd _never _have let you get away with that." He might not know much else, but he knew he'd have dragged Rusty to a doctor.

There was a look and Rusty was stubborn. "There were other things going on," he said, and there was a look in his eyes that reminded Danny that there were still other things going on.

He wondered where they were being taken. Wondered what was going to happen. Somehow, he doubted that they were going to be invited for coffee and cake. Like before, there was going to be pain, and it would be better this time because he had Rusty and it would be so much worse this time because Rusty would be there.

Impossible not to remember the chop shop and the soldering iron. His chest hurt, imagining Rusty in his place.

And last time he'd been lucky to escape. They couldn't count on that.

Broken threads of memory wove their way through his head. Narrow escapes and stolen chances. Rusty laughing as they ran.

"We make our own luck," Rusty murmured to him. "Remember?"

He nodded and Rusty smiled. They'd take any opportunity they could.

* * *

By the time, barely ten minutes later, that the van swerved down a steep slope and screeched to a halt, he and Rusty were talking quietly and animatedly about the likelihood of Lassie having been trained to push Timmy down the well.

" - no, it _can't _be a coincidence," he insisted, ignoring the sound of doors opening and guns being cocked. "And no dog is naturally that evil - "

Rusty frowned. " - the ones in The Omen seemed pretty - "

" - yeah, but they weren't actually - "

"_Come on," _Willy snarled, and he grabbed Rusty's arm and hauled him up roughly. Glaring after him, biting back the need to scream at Willy, to demand that he take his hands off Rusty right that instant, Danny scrambled to his feet and followed them.

They were in an underground parking lot. More than that he wasn't sure of.

"Mackenzie's building," Rusty told him in a low voice, leaning in close.

"That's right," Harry told them, pulling him away, pulling them apart. "The boss wants to see your personally."

"Oh, we're honoured," Rusty grinned brightly. "Should we bow or curtsey?"

He winced as the fist connected with Rusty's jaw, and he stepped forwards as Rusty stumbled. "Would you keep your mouth shut?" he hissed, as they were dragged towards the elevators.

The look that Rusty shot him was full of dark amusement and also full of _never._

* * *

Fourth floor and even though Rusty hadn't told him, Danny had to guess that this was Mackenzie's office.

Few days ago he'd been here stealing the pot. Nothing looked even slightly familiar. Nothing triggered even the slightest of memories. He might as well have never been here in his life.

There was no one sitting behind the desk. The office was empty and Steven seemed nervous, pacing up and down while Bill, Willy and Harry kept their guns trained on him and Rusty.

He glanced casually at the desk and smiled inwardly at the bright yellow mug with the smiley face. Maybe he didn't remember the plan but it was nice to know that it had worked right up until the point where it really hadn't.

"Where is he?" Steven muttered agitatedly, apparently to himself. "Where is he?"

"He's probably busy," Billy suggested hesitantly.

"I told him..." Steven broke off, shaking his head. "God, if you fuckers make me look bad one more time..."

The door opened and a tall, beefy, well-dressed man swept in and sat down behind the desk without giving any of them so much as a glance.

Mackenzie, he presumed.

As he watched, the man pulled a filofax towards him and started noting something down.

Steven cleared his throat nervously. "Mr Mackenzie? Uh, Mr Mackenzie?"

"Why are there two men in my office?" Mackenzie asked without looking up.

"This is the thief, Mr Mackenzie," Steven explained eagerly. "We..._I _caught him. He can tell us where Morgan's list is."

At that, Mackenzie did look up, neatly dropping his pen and steepling his hands in front of him. "Why are there two men in my office when I asked you to find one?"

Danny could hear disconcerted shuffling behind him.

"He...that is, the other one was with him when we found them," Steven said hesitantly. "I..._we_ figured he might know something. If the other one doesn't remember. They seemed...close."

"He doesn't know anything," Danny said immediately and as convincingly as he knew how, fully aware of the unhappy disapproval from Rusty. He didn't care that it was stupid. He didn't care that it would never work. He had to try. "I only just met him, he's not part of any of this. It's me you want."

Slowly, Mackenzie turned his head and looked at Danny, fixing him with a long and thoughtful stare. Danny met it evenly and sold the lie as truth.

Without taking his eyes off Danny, Mackenzie indicated Willy and Bill. "Take the spare down to the basement," he said absently, waving a negligent hand. "Hurt him. Make sure he tells you everything he knows."

"No!" Danny yelled, and he spun round and Rusty was being dragged away by Willy and Bill, and they were eager, and Rusty's eyes were on his, and there was warning and apology and strength and love, and Danny was _never _going to say goodbye. "No!"

The door slammed behind them and it was only then that Danny realised that Harry was holding him back with bruising strength.

"Only just met him," Mackenzie mused. "Really."

Danny turned back round, fierce and defiant and glaring. "Let him go!"

"You could just tell me everything now," Mackenzie suggested. "It would save me a lot of trouble. Save you and your friend a lot of pain. Where's the list?"

The list would be in police hands by now. And if he told them _that _then they would have no more use for him and Rusty. And that didn't mean they'd be let go.

His mouth shut tight, he shook his head.

Mackenzie sighed. "Why do people always insist on being difficult?" he lamented. "I don't have _time _for this." He looked at Harry and Steven. "Get him ready."

He tried to run when they took the cuffs off. Tried to fight. Nothing worked and he found himself tied to a low wooden chair. The ropes were tight and the echo back to last time was inescapable.

He was afraid. He didn't want to admit it, but he was afraid. And his fear in the face of imminent pain was _nothing _compared to the terror and anguish at what Rusty might be facing. _Hurt him, _Mackenzie had said, and Danny's imagination was working overtime.

_Rusty_ he screamed, deep inside his mind, and there was no answer.

Mackenzie stood in front of him, frowning and holding a pencil. "Let's get started. Are you going to tell me where the list is?"

"I don't know," he said immediately. "They must've told you. I don't remember anything."

Mackenzie nodded. "I'm afraid I don't believe you," he said, and he leaned forwards and gently slid the point of the pencil inside Danny's ear and rested the heel of his hand against the base. "This is going to hurt a lot."

Danny could feel the pressure against his eardrum. He tried not to flinch. He could already imagine Mackenzie's hand flying back, hammering the pencil home. This was going to hurt a lot.

He swallowed. "Fuck you," he said, and maybe if he was stubborn enough and obnoxious enough, maybe they'd leave Rusty alone. "You can all rot in hell." His voice was steady, at least.

Mackenzie's eyes were cold, and he pushed the pencil forwards minutely, and Danny was sure that his ear was bleeding, and then, distantly, he heard the sound of shouting and a brief burst of gunfire.

"What the fuck?" Steven muttered.

"Dawson," Mackenzie said grimly, stepping back, away from Danny, and dropping the pencil. He glanced at Danny, wrenching his chin up. "Congratulations. You get some time to think this over. We _will _continue this later."

"Can't wait," Danny managed.

Guns drawn, they quietly crept out of the office.

Danny allowed himself a second of blissful, shuddering relief.

God, he had to get out of here. He had to find Rusty.

* * *

***shrug* Pencils are scary.**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Nothing really to say. Hope you enjoy the chapter.**

* * *

Right. First thing was to get out of here. Find Rusty. Dodge Mackenzie and Dawson's people. Escape. Live happily ever after. Easy as pineapple pie.

He was still breathing too quickly. Still gripped with fear. Still all-too-able to imagine the feeling of the pencil gliding into his ear. Through his eardrum. Still all-too-able to imagine that pain.

And even more it was impossible not to imagine Rusty dragged away by Willy and Bill. And he _knew _what they were capable of. Images of the soldering iron mixed with images of the man and the knife from his memory. Rusty hurting and Danny nowhere near.

Focus. Deep breaths. Escape.

The whole tied-to-a-chair part was obviously the first obstacle. He'd tested the knots, of course; they weren't going to loosen no matter what he did.

They didn't have to.

Rocking back and forth he managed to get enough momentum to end up on his feet, leaving him bent over ridiculously, his arms bent painfully, unnaturally back, the chair now tied to _him _like some very confused snail.

Didn't matter how it looked. The point was...

He swung himself against the wall as hard as he could and he was confident he'd done a good job in bruising his shoulder. The chair, however, remained resolutely intact. He tried again. And again. Fuck, but they made these things to last. There was probably some serious product endorsement that Mackenzie could work out here.

He took a deep breath. Leaned forwards. Swung harder. This time he heard wood splintering and, encouraged, he swung against the wall, rapidly and irregularly, and bit by bit, little by little, the chair cracked into pieces.

After that, the ropes fell off easily and he ran towards the door.

There was no sound in the corridor but further away, somewhere downstairs, he could still hear shouting. Whatever was happening, it wasn't over. Turf war, Steven had said. Why did it have to happen while they were still in the middle of it?

Cautiously, he opened the door and crept out. Like he'd figured there was no one outside.

Right. Now he had to find Rusty. Immediately. Sooner. Fear was driving him absolutely. It had been at least twenty minutes now. Anything could have happened and he was trying his very best not to consider the possibilities.

They'd taken Rusty to the basement. Stairs. He ran.

Rusty would be fine. Rusty was tough. Rusty could survive anything. Rusty would be _fine. _If he told himself that often enough he might start to believe it.

Two flights down and he didn't hear the man on the landing over the sound of his own frantic footfalls.

Fortunately, the man seemed to be more surprised to see him. He was standing there, on the landing, gun in one hand, walky-talky in the other, and when Danny ran down the corner, he looked up and his eyes widened in shock and astonishment. "Hey!" he yelled, and Danny wasn't listening.

He turned and ran back up the stairs, and he could hear the man following him. Fuck. Okay, so far they'd been no gunfire. And since Dawson's people seemed to be the most trigger happy, he could figure that this was probably one of Mackenzies guys. And that meant he knew the building like the back of his hand, while Danny didn't even know the back of his hand like the back of his hand.

"Wait!" the man yelled, and Danny didn't take orders. Especially that kind of order. There was nowhere to hide on a staircase. He threw himself through the next door he came to and was back on the floor he'd started on, heading back towards Mackenzie's office.

"Where are you going?" the man called, sounding frustrated. Danny had no idea. He was just running down a corridor.

Thing was, like he'd figured, if this was one of Mackenzie's people, he did know his way round. But more importantly – much more importantly – he probably knew exactly where they'd have taken Rusty.

As soon as the idea occurred it was a plan and as soon as it was a plan he was putting it into action.

He dived through the next door in the corridor and stopped short. Waited. A few seconds later he heard pounding footsteps approach and he stepped out and punched as hard as he could.

He caught the man on the jaw. Hard. And the man stumbled back, but he didn't fall and he was staring at Danny with an expression of complete bewilderment – hadn't been expecting to see Danny. Hadn't been expecting Danny to fight. Looked like the element of surprise was well and truly his.

"Where is he?" he snarled, following his first punch with a second.

This time the man caught his wrist. "What the fuck are you - "

_Not _the answer he was looking for. There was only one thing he was prepared to listen to. "Where is he?" he repeated, wrenching his hand back with an effort, and the man tried to grab him again, and next thing it was an all-out wrestling match, and the man had the height advantage, seemed to have every advantage, but it was almost like he was reluctant to use it.

"Time out!" a voice bellowed.

He froze. Rusty's voice. Rusty.

He turned anxiously and Rusty was standing in the doorway, looking at both of them. There was blood on Rusty's face – his lip was split – and his shirt was ripped right open, but he didn't look _that _much the worse for wear. Nowhere like Danny had been trying not to imagine. He tried to ask the question without asking the question and Rusty shook his head minutely, reassuringly. And Rusty was asking the same question in the same instant and Danny was offering the same promises. They were fine; more or less.

"Okay," Rusty said calmly. "Quick introductions. Danny, this is Bobby Caldwell. Bobby, Danny got hit on the head last week and he doesn't remember anything."

Bobby Caldwell. Oh. The guy Rusty had called for help tracking a useful cop. The guy Rusty had told him to go to for help. (_And part of him remembered darkly Rusty's insistence that__ Danny leave him behind. Oh, that was something to come back to later.)_ Bobby Caldwell. Their friend.

Suddenly intensely aware that his hands were still gripping Bobby's collar, he let go and stepped back. "Sorry," he said, grimacing as he noted the rapidly forming bruise on Bobby's jaw. "Sorry."

Bobby was staring at him. "You don't remember anything?" he asked incredulously.

"I remember Rusty," he answered defensively. "Now."

"You serious? This isn't a wind-up?" Bobby demanded, looking from one to the other and he seemed to be really looking for some punchline, some sign that this was all a practical joke. It wasn't.

He shrugged and said nothing. He didn't remember this man. He didn't want to explain themselves.

"Stan says it's temporary," Rusty said softly.

"Right." Bobby shook his head and looked at the pair of them worriedly. "Are you alright? What the hell are you doing here? Last I heard you were leaving the bank - "

" - the phonecall," Rusty said suddenly. "There was a clicking...the line was tapped. I should've got that."

"Mackenzie's people picked us up," Danny told Bobby, seeing that Rusty wasn't about to say something. "They wanted to know where the list was."

"Cops have it now," Bobby told them absently. He was staring and he took a deep breath. "Did they do anything?"

The concern in his voice was real, Danny realised. A real and fervent hope that he and Rusty weren't hurt. Wonderingly, he shook his head reassuringly. "They didn't get much past threats."

There was a look in Rusty's eyes that seemed to be questioning the 'much' and the 'threats' but then Bobby was looking at him anxiously and Rusty smiled. "Other than ruining a perfectly good shirt? Nothing much." His eyes flickered over to Danny. "Willy's a one trick pony," he said quietly and Danny understood what that meant and he shuddered. "But they ran out when everything kicked off. Guess that was your doing, huh?"

"Just along for the ride," Bobby told them. "Kind of hoping that none of the local guys ask what the Bureau's interest in this whole mess is."

"What_ are _you doing here?" Rusty asked with a slight frown.

"You said on the phone that everything was fine," Bobby said simply. "I didn't believe you." He looked at Danny. Looked around Mackenzie's office. "Guess I was right."

"Yeah..." Rusty sighed and rubbed his mouth. "Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby wasn't quite willing to let up. "I know you like being independent but something like this...someone like Mackenzie after you and you don't think to ask for help? _Jesus, _Rusty."

And that wasn't fair. "Hey," he objected. "I was there too."

Bobby looked at him and his eyes softened. He cleared his throat. "Right. We don't have much time. We need to get you out of here. We haven't managed to track down all of Mackenzie's people yet, not to mention the whole building is crawling with cops who will arrest you first and ask questions later."

Rusty nodded. "There's the underground passage in the parking lot? If we can make it that far."

"No good," Bobby said immediately. "The ground floor's completely covered. No way in or out. You're going to have to bluff your way through." He fished in his pocket and came out with a couple of detective badges. "These should help."

Danny stared. "What, you just happened to be carrying those around?" he asked, incredulously.

Rusty was grinning. "It's good to be prepared. Bobby's kind of like Batman."

With an effort, Danny managed to avoid laughing at the look on Bobby's face.

Rusty shrugged. "What? I could've said you were a Boy Scout. And I don't think you've got the knees for it."

"We'd better get going," Bobby told them dryly.

"I'm not very inconspicuous right now," Rusty commented with a grimace and Danny had to admit, he had a point. The torn shirt was going to attract attention. "Feel like David Banner."

"Try walking away slowly. I'll listen for the music," Danny said, shrugging out of his jacket and handing it over.

Rusty went to pull it on.

"Wait!" Bobby said sharply "What's that?" He was pointing at Rusty's side, where red skin and dried blood were just peeking through. "You said they didn't get a chance to hurt you."

"That was there before," Rusty said, with a determined casualness that Danny was absolutely certain wasn't going to work. Not on Bobby. He frowned deeply, and there was almost memory there, but when he tried to chase it down, it crumbled to dust.

Bobby was staring. "Is that...tell me that's not glue."

Rusty scrambled hurriedly into the jacket.

"We ready to go?" Danny asked, trying to cover the moment.

Bobby looked at him, his brow creased. "You knew about this? You let him...." He trailed off. Danny knew that his face was showing his guilt. He hadn't known then. He hadn't understood anything then. "Sorry," Bobby said quietly. "I wasn't thinking."

"Let's get going," Rusty said quietly.

They headed for the stairs and Bobby was leading the way and Rusty carefully waited until Danny started walking before falling into the rear, neatly surrounding Danny with as much safety as he could offer. Danny couldn't quite decide whether that made him amused or irritated. Either way, he wanted to call Rusty an idiot.

There was a noise coming from the floor above. They froze, looking upwards.

"I need to check that out," Bobby said in a whisper.

"Sounded like a fax machine," Rusty hissed back.

"I still need to check," Bobby answered immediately. "It's what they pay me for."

"Think they also pay you not to steal shit," Rusty muttered. "You don't pay attention to that...." He sighed. "Okay, let's go.

"No," Bobby said firmly. "You two stay here."

Rusty looked like he was going to argue and Danny wasn't exactly happy about it himself. He did _not _want to stand around doing nothing while Bobby did something dangerous. "Not a chance," he said out loud, but Bobby was looking at Rusty, a wordless conversation taking place, and Danny didn't need his memories to read that one.

Bobby was telling Rusty to stay here and protect Danny. And Rusty was listening. Danny was a liability.

"Don't be long," Rusty told Bobby. "Be careful."

Danny kept his mouth shut and said nothing, and, gun in hand, Bobby crept up the stairs.

Leaning against the wall, Danny looked at Rusty who'd turned away, taking advantage of Bobby's absence to scratch furiously. Least he stopped at Danny's look. "What happens when we get out of here?" Danny asked, and it was mostly about making conversation, mostly about keeping other thoughts inside.

"We're not out of here," Rusty answered simply.

"No you're not," Mackenzie agreed.

He stepped out onto the stairs and laid his gun against Rusty's head.

Fuck.

Danny hadn't even seen exactly where he came from. Hadn't heard a sound. Mackenzie must've been waiting in the corridor all along. Listening to them. Just waiting for the opportunity.

Mackenzie's eyes were fixed on Danny. "You have caused me a _great deal_ of inconvenience."

"Yeah, sorry about that," Danny said with blatant insincerity, and there was a gun against Rusty's head. Focusing on anything else was impossible.

"The police are all over my business. Shutting me down. I hold you responsible. You and your friend here."

Transfixed, Danny watched as the barrel of the gun was ground harder against Rusty's temple. It was hurting him, Danny could see that. Even if Rusty's mouth was shut and his eyes were expressionless, Danny could see that.

"We don't work for the cops," he pointed out.

"Your friend does," Mackenzie said coldly. "I saw him with the others. They were listening to him. And I have to tell you, it doesn't matter who you're working for. What matters is that you know where my list is. And I want it back."

He had been listening. He knew about Bobby. And Danny didn't know what to say. Didn't know what to do.

"You can't always get what you want," Rusty said with a smile, and Danny wasn't so convinced that the Rolling Stones were helpful right now.

Mackenzie sighed and struck out viciously with the gun. Blood spattered against the wall. Rusty's hand was pressed tight against his cheek.

There had been an opportunity there. For a second there had been an opportunity there, a moment when the gun had been pointed at neither of them and Danny had missed it. All he'd been able to think was that if he charged, if he threw himself on Mackenzie, then there was a chance that Rusty would end up dead. He hadn't been able to take the risk. But the gun was back, pointed at Rusty's head, and he should've...he thought he should've.

"I'm going to say it again," Mackenzie told them mildly. "I want my list back."

He had to think. Of course Mackenzie wanted his list back. If his empire had gone sour he needed an escape route. The money, the merchandise...it would give him a means to start somewhere else. A means to rebuild. And if they were the ones who knew where the list was, then that meant they were holding the cards. Didn't it?

"I'm waiting," Mackenzie added, and the barrel of the gun was digging into Rusty's cheek, between Rusty's fingers, and Rusty didn't quite manage to stifle the gasp of pain.

"Stop it!" Danny snarled.

Mackenzie's eyes were on him. "That's what you said before. You care about him, don't you?" His voice was vaguely curious and vaguely amused. "Well, you're going to watch him die unless you tell me what I want to know. Where is my list?"

He was going to watch Rusty die. He _couldn't. _

Somewhere behind Mackenzie, Danny saw a shadow moving. Bobby, he was sure of it. But he was equally sure that Bobby was helpless. Bobby wasn't going to risk trying anything while Mackenzie had a gun pressed to Rusty's head.

He met Rusty's eyes, wanting to see a plan there, wanting to be told what to do, and Rusty was apologising silently.

Rusty didn't know what to do.

Danny did.

Suddenly and unexpectedly, Danny knew exactly what to do. The plan was all there in his head.

"Don't hurt him," he begged, broken and afraid. "I'll tell you. I swear I'll tell you."

Mackenzie was looking at him, a smile of cold triumph on his face. "Of course you will."

Mackenzie didn't know them. Not him and not Rusty. Didn't know anything. There was their advantage because all those things that Danny had forgotten didn't seem so very important anymore. He knew Rusty and he knew Them and that meant he never had to give up.

"The cops have the list," he said truthfully. "It was hidden in that bank that they raided earlier this evening, and they've got it."

The gun ground against Rusty's cheek a little harder. "That's not the answer I wanted to hear."

"But we're going to get it back!" Danny explained desperately. "Mr Donavan's figured out a way for us to get it back."

"Donavan's dead," Mackenzie said, but there was a hesitancy and an uncertainty. Seemed like the rumours that Rusty had started had spread nicely. Their imaginary Donavan represented a potential threat to Mackenzie.

He let a momentary expression of knowing amusement flicker across his face. "Dead. Right. That was something of an exaggeration."

"A lie," Rusty added helpfully and his eyes met Danny's briefly and he was following Danny's lead, following Danny's plan, trusting Danny. Danny hoped he knew what he was doing.

Mackenzie's jaw was set and his eyes were hard and Danny had to keep off balance and focused on the prize. Couldn't let him stop and think. "Mr Donavan is alive and well and he's worked very hard to get his hands on that list."

"My list," Mackenzie corrected. "And he is not going to get it because _you _are going to give it to me."

Danny hesitated. Looked doubtful.

"And if you don't," Mackenzie went on, "Then you're going to watch your friend die."

"Don't tell him anything!" Rusty cut in, just like in every movie Danny thought he'd ever seen.

"I _have _to," he said with soft, intense anguish. "I have to." He took a deep breath and looked Mackenzie straight in the eye. "The guy we were talking with before. He's on Donavan's payroll. He was going to take us in. Make it look to the cops like he was arresting us. There's a cop there. Sergeant – " His eyes cut to Rusty.

" – Joe McAllen," Rusty supplied easily.

"That's him," Danny agreed. "We give him the password, he slips us the list and releases us on a technicality, nobody's any the wiser."

"Password?" Mackenzie cut in sharply. "So he doesn't know you?"

"No," Danny agreed hesitantly.

"He's expecting two of us," Rusty said quickly, like it was important.

There was a slight frown on Mackenzie's face, like he was making new plans. That was what Danny wanted to see.

"What is the password?" Mackenzie demanded at last.

Danny's face showed agony. "Please. He'll kill us if we do."

"It's far too late to think of that," Mackenzie told them. "I'm right here. I'm holding a gun to your friend's head. Do you honestly think I won't pull the trigger?"

"No," Danny admitted quietly. Mackenzie would pull the trigger in a heartbeat. "The password is Get Happy."

"Get Happy?" Mackenzie repeated with incredulous distaste.

"Right," Danny agreed. "Say that to Sergeant McAllen and he'll know who you are."

"You're coming with me," Mackenzie ordered. "I want to keep an eye on you. I want to make sure you're not trying anything."

Danny didn't particularly like that plan. But it was better that than Mackenzie kept one of them hostage and stayed out of it. "Fine," he agreed tightly.

"Will three of us cause a problem?" Mackenzie asked, staring intently at him.

"Nah," he said with a shrug. "Donavan doesn't trust anyone. From his point of view the more the better. McAllen won't be surprised."

"Very well." Mackenzie nodded slowly. "Now all we need to do is wait for your friend."

Bobby's cue. And Bobby had been in earshot, had been listening, and the only question was whether Bobby trusted him enough to go along with his plan.

Just because the wait was only a couple of moments didn't mean it wasn't agony.

They heard Bobby before they saw him. Obviously he didn't want to risk sneaking up on Mackenzie and Mackenzie's gun. "Hey, guys, are you – " He stepped round the corner. Froze, like the scene in front of him was the last thing he'd ever been expecting.

Mackenzie's gun was on him instantly, but the crook of his arm was wound tightly round Rusty's throat and there was no opportunity here at all.

"Hello there," Mackenzie said pleasantly. "Take your gun out. Slowly."

Bobby complied, looking between the three of them uneasily.

"Now, take the clip out and slide it over to me," Mackenzie ordered, and again, Bobby obeyed immediately.

"What's going on?" Bobby demanded, and the tone of useless anger in his voice sounded perfect to Danny.

"There has been a slight change of plan," Mackenzie explained, with the cold smile of one who was holding the entire pack. "I believe you were going to take these two...gentlemen into custody and introduce them to Sergeant McAllen. Now you're going to take all three of us."

A look of absolute fury came his way. "You told him! I can't believe you told him, you spineless fucking –

" – now, now," Mackenzie cut in smoothly. "There's no time for recriminations. I've told you how it's going to be. Make it look good."

They made it look very good. Walking down the stairs, like Bobby had just arrested them, and Mackenzie was splitting his attention between Danny and Rusty in front and Bobby just behind him.

That was what made it easy, as they stepped out into the police-filled foyer and the dozen guns were trained on their heads, for he and Rusty to inch sideways and Bobby to inch back, leaving all of them out of Mackenzie's reach.

"Identify yourselves!" the cop in charge bellowed.

"It's me Lieutenant," Bobby said calmly, flashing his badge. "And these are Detectives Hill and Friar. They're the reason I'm here."

"Hi," Danny said, flashing the badge and a smile and knowing that on the other side, Rusty was doing the exact same thing.

"They've been undercover," Bobby went on, and there was curt nod of understanding and belief.

And that only left Mackenzie to be explained. And all the guns were pointed at him now and he wasn't nearly stupid enough to try anything.

"And this is William Mackenzie," Bobby said, and somehow all the guns got pointed a little bit harder.

"The big boss man himself!" The lieutenant was smiling. Mackenzie very much wasn't. "Okay. Cuff him and read him his rights," he yelled, and half

"I underestimated you," Mackenzie said in a low voice, and he was staring at Danny, like he was committing every detail to memory. "Please believe me. I will not do so again."

Yeah. Danny didn't think he would.

"I just need to debrief my men," Bobby called over his shoulder to the lieutenant, and before he'd even got the absent okay, he was hustling them towards the exit like the building was on fire.

Getting out of here as fast as possible. Seemed like a good idea.

* * *

They were a couple of blocks away before they even thought of slowing down.

"I need to get back," Bobby told them immediately. "I need to make sure that nothing sticks."

"We're leaving town," Rusty said promptly. "Soon as possible."

"Good." Bobby sounded relieved. "I'll catch up with you on a few days. And you're going to tell me _all _about it."

Wasn't exactly clear what the unspoken threat _was, _but Danny still heard it loud and clear. Apparently they were in trouble. But from the way Rusty was smiling, it wasn't trouble they were going to pay too much attention to.

"There's a few guys in there who know what we look like," Rusty said to Bobby, an edge to his voice. "Names are Bill, Willy, Harry and Steven."

"I'll look out for them," Bobby promised. "Think the cops have got everyone. They were definitely in the building?"

"Oh, yeah," Rusty agreed, rubbing absently at his side.

Danny winced as Bobby caught the gesture.

His eyes darkened. "I'll look out for them," he repeated. "You get going now. I'll see you in a couple of days."

"Thanks, Bobby," Rusty said with soft sincerity. "We owe you one."

"Thank you," Danny echoed.

Bobby looked at him and shook his head and whatever he was thinking he wasn't going to share it.

They watched him head back to Mackenzie's place and they started walking away.

"So," Danny began after a second.

"Taxi, airport, home?" Rusty suggested.

Danny frowned. "First we're going to call Stan."

Rusty looked at him sideways, his eyes alight with amusement. "Oh, we are, are we?"

"Yeah," Danny said and this time he was insistent and this time there would be no arguments.

Over the past few days he hadn't known anything. He'd left Rusty to make the decisions, left Rusty to take care of both of them. That ended now. He didn't remember everything but it felt like he knew what mattered.

After another moment, he glanced at Rusty uncertainly. "Rus'? If my memories never come back...we're...nothing changes, right?" He knew how he felt. But he'd been so lost for so long and he wanted to hear it out loud.

Rusty's smile was overwhelming. "No. Nothing changes."

"Good," he sighed contentedly. "And don't you _ever _say you'll leave me again."

"I think I can manage that," Rusty promised, still smiling. "Can we go home now? I've seriously had enough of this fucking city."

Danny laughed and walked beside him.

Home. Felt like he was already there.

* * *

**A/N: And that's largely the end of Knowledge and Promise. Only the epilogue to go. Sometime soonish, I promise**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: And this is the conclusion to Knowledge and Promise, at long last. Hope you've enjoyed it.**

**A/N2: For InSilva, as always, for help and support and encouragement and being generally wonderful  
**

* * *

The apartment seemed nice enough. Welcoming and he could see himself living here, could see _Rusty _living here. But he didn't remember.

If he was being honest, at the airport, on the plan, all the way to New York he'd been indulging in this little daydream where the moment he stepped through the front door he remembered everything. Like a kid, thinking that the world would change if he just closed his eyes and wished.

He sighed, disappointed, and glanced at Rusty. Oh, well.

Rusty smiled understandingly. "Still home," he pointed out.

"Right," Danny agreed. His eyes narrowed. "So now you call Stan." Rusty had managed to argue that by the time they found a place to stay and Stan came out all the way again they'd be as well going home and having him meet them there.

There was an exasperated sigh. "Was hoping you'd forget."

He did his best to hide the shudder.

"What?" Rusty said immediately, gently.

"It's nothing," he said, shaking his head. It was nothing. A stupid sort of nothing.

"What?" Rusty asked again, and he was standing in front of Danny, his hand hovering over Danny's cheek.

"I forgot to care about you," Danny whispered t last, not meeting Rusty's eyes.

"You forgot everything, Danny," Rusty said after a second.

He shook his head. "You got shot and I didn't – "

" – you _stayed_ remember," Rusty interrupted fiercely. "Even though I told you to leave you stayed because I was hurt."

But that hadn't been because Rusty was Rusty. That had been closer to a simple case of right and wrong. Rusty had been shot and Danny remembered standing by and watching him take care of himself, remembered just accepting it when Rusty said it wasn't that bad, remembered pushing Rusty away – gently, but that wasn't the point – when he'd been asleep and reaching out for comfort. He knew every single thing that he would have done different.

"Hey," Rusty's hand was on his cheek. "I'm okay, Danny. We're okay."

And there was so much that was still missing out of his head, so much he just didn't know, but Rusty was here, looking at him, smiling at him, and Danny reached up and placed his hand on Rusty's, leaning into the touch like he never wanted to lose it. "Yeah," he said, closing his eyes. "We're okay."

* * *

By the time Stan arrived Danny had had a quick tour of his own home, a couple of glasses of wine and a bath – after the brief debate over who got to go first.

He'd been briefly amused and briefly amazed at the amount of bubble bath that had been in their bathroom, and then he'd remembered – just a little flash, just a little glimpse – of him standing in the middle of some upscale boutique, buying every flavour under the sun because Rusty had asked and he hadn't been sure what he would like. There had been guilt eating through him, and he struggled to remember why.

The bath smelled of tangerines. He lay back and closed his eyes and let the memory wash over him.

There had been a job. An image of a red-haired man, a feeling of dislike, something about two identical paintings...the details escaped him. But Danny had been inside, drinking brandy with the mark and Rusty had been outside...up a tree? Why up a tree? He shook his head, something about wires...and Danny had been laughing about their respective roles before, had said something about Rusty being sure to hang on, and then while he had been safe and warm and dry – he remembered listening to the rain hammering against the window, remembered it as clearly as if it had happened five minutes ago. Remembered meeting up with Rusty, soaked and bedraggled and shivering. Remembered the cold that Rusty had caught the next day, remembered listening to the sneezing and the hacking cough and seeing Rusty's face, flushed and miserable. And he remembered the guilt, remembered running out to bring back as much soup, medicine and bubble bath as he could carry.

And he remembered Rusty lying in bed, smiling up at him, affectionate and exasperated, telling him that actually colds didn't work that way, it was a virus and that meant that Rusty would have gotten it _anyway, _and no, in this case he didn't care _what _Danny's mother had told him, you couldn't catch a cold from standing in the rain too long – even up a tree – but if Danny _really _wanted to spoil him, he'd better have brought back chocolate.

He had.

He smiled; memory was beautiful.

Rubbing a towel through his hair, he stepped back through into the living room.

Rusty was curled in a comfortable chair, the phone lying discarded beside him, his fingers digging furiously into his side.

"Rus," Danny sighed, in a tone that meant 'Stop that.'

"It itches," Rusty said plaintively, but he stopped scratching with a visible effort.

"You called Stan?" he asked.

"Yeah," Rusty nodded. "He'll be here in a few hours. Noon or so. Sounded like he was expecting the call."

Danny paused. "You think Bobby – "

" – don't know," Rusty said. "Doubt it."

Right. Maybe. Danny wasn't completely convinced. "You remember that time in Chicago? He told Saul about the air vent."

Rusty was looking at him and the smile was broad and delighted.

"What?" he asked, frowning.

"You remember the time in Chicago?" Rusty repeated slowly.

_Oh. _He felt himself grinning and he searched through his mind. The impressions were hazy. Feelings, not details. He remembered the conversation with Rusty, trying to figure out how to play it. He didn't remember the vent, and he didn't remember Saul's face. Didn't remember Saul.

He sighed, disappointed. "Nothing else."

"But it's something," Rusty told him gently. "We're getting there."

He grinned. "Since when are you the optimist?"

"It's not about being optimistic or pessimistic," Rusty said simply. "It's about being _right._"

* * *

They stuck the TV on and dozed off somewhere in the middle of 'Columbo', and Danny didn't really wake up until Rusty was already answering the door.

Stan, and Danny was pleased to see him this time, and he was persuasive enough and sincere enough to make sure that Stan looked at Rusty first.

A few moments of casual conversation and then Stan was staring at Rusty unblinkingly. "I would dearly love to hear how this ever seemed like a good idea," he said, examining Rusty's side grimly.

Rusty shrugged easily. "Circumstances."

Danny bit his lip anxiously. "He's going to be okay though?"

Stan looked up at him quickly. "You really are getting your memory back, huh," he said and they'd _said_ he was. "Yeah. I brought along some solvent dissolver. Should be enough to get rid of this mess he's made of himself. Then I'll clean it all up and see if he needs stitches."

"Sitting right here," Rusty pointed out sulkily.

"Stay sitting right there," Danny told him firmly and he watched Stan work and he could see the pain in Rusty's eyes and he had a feeling that Rusty's patience would run out long before his concern did.

Once Stan had bandaged the bullet wound and sorted the gash on Rusty's cheek, it was Danny's turn and Stan seemed pleased with the way his head was healing and even more pleased when Danny told him that some of his memories had come back

"But I don't remember everything," he said anxiously.

"Sometimes it takes time," Stan told him. "Come to the hospital tomorrow and we'll see about getting you another scan."

He supposed he'd have to try being patient.

* * *

Once Stan had left, they went to bed. It had been a very long day. For a start, it had begun some time yesterday morning.

He should sleep.

He needed to sleep, he knew that, he was exhausted.

Instead, he lay in bed, awake alone, staring at the ceiling. He didn't want to close his eyes. He didn't want to run the risk of falling into oblivion, waking up not knowing anything again. Knowledge was fragile, he knew that now, and he was terrified of losing it again.

Eventually he got up and snuck through to Rusty's room. Rusty didn't stir when he opened the door and Danny crept into bed beside him, hoping against hope that Rusty wouldn't wake up.

A few seconds later and Rusty opened his eyes, smiled sleepily at him and took his hand.

Danny held it tightly.

He wouldn't forget.

* * *

The next few days passed in a strange blur.

The scan didn't reveal anything new, and Stan told them again that they'd have to be patient, and Danny wasn't convinced they were so good at that.

They had lunch in a diner a few blocks from their apartment, and Danny sat across the table, ignoring his burger and watching Rusty drinking his milkshake appreciatively, and he delighted in the memory of a hundred other identical moments.

Phil and Eleanor came by late afternoon, ostensibly in town to get a good look at an auction Eleanor had an interest in. That was a lie and they all knew it.

Rusty had called them just after he'd called Stan. Letting them know that everything was fine. And Danny wasn't at all surprised that they'd wanted to make sure and he assured them a dozen times that he was feeling better, that Rusty was fine, and eventually they seemed to believe.

They sat and drank beer and he and Rusty shared an abridged version of the story and then there were other stories, ones that he wasn't expected to know and it helped to hear them.

Stories about him and stories about Rusty and stories about names and places and people that stirred dim feelings and images in his mind.

He didn't remember. But he didn't _not _remember either.

And he was enjoying himself, right up until the moment when Phil nudged Rusty in the ribs, while he was hinting around the story about a girl named Kate, a hot air balloon, a swimming pool, several candles and a wealth of fireworks that Danny would guess, from the glint in Rusty's eye, that Phil didn't know _nearly _as much about as he thought.

Rusty had paled immediately. He hadn't gasped, hadn't even winced, but he'd paled and Danny had noticed and Eleanor had noticed.

"You're hurt," she stated, eyes narrowed, and in an instant she was leaning across Phil and pulling Rusty's shirt up.

"Hey!" Rusty protested, tugging the shirt back down immediately. "Personal space."

"You _are _hurt," Phil said, looking guilty. "Sorry, man."

Rusty shrugged. "'s nothing," he said and he was looking desperately to Danny to change the subject.

"So what happened with Katie," Danny asked Phil quickly. "I mean, plastic melts, right?"

Wasn't enough. At this stage, he didn't think anything would be enough.

"That looked bad, Rusty," Eleanor went on, frowning, and the concern was genuine. "It looked infected. Have you seen a doctor?"

"It's not infected," Rusty assured her. "And I saw Stan."

She still looked suspicious. "It's all red and blistered," she pointed out.

Rusty shrugged again. "Allergic reaction," he said smoothly. "Should die down in a few days.

Eleanor looked like she was just about ready to accept that.

"Did you super glue it?" Phil asked cheerfully and out of nowhere.

The question was so unexpected that Danny wasn't able to hide his reaction and, by the look on Phil's face, the look on _Eleanor's_ face, his startled gasp was the equivalent to Rusty confessing.

"You did, didn't you," Phil said, shaking his head. "I remember when were in that place in Denver last year you were reading that bit in the Reader's Digest. Didn't think you'd actually go through with it."

Suddenly, and out of nowhere, Danny remembered thinking that Rusty would go through with it. Danny remembered vowing to make sure that Rusty never had a _chance _to go through with it. He clung to the flash of knowledge with everything he had.

"Circumstances," Rusty explained again succinctly.

Eleanor was shaking her head and Phil looked impressed and amused. Danny would bet money on him spreading the story before too long. Oh, only to people they trusted, but still. Phil liked gossip. He remembered the first time they'd met him, in a motel room in Phoenix. It had been the first time they'd needed a munitions guy and Frank had known someone who'd known someone who'd known Phil. And there'd been stories and beer and Phil had been laughing cheerfully.

He remembered...

Rusty was looking at him knowingly. He smiled.

* * *

Bobby came to see them a few days after they got back.

"Everything in St Louis has gone quiet," he assured them. "No one's looking for you. Might be looking for Donavan, might be looking for a couple of undercover cops, but no one has any clue what was really going on."

"Good," Danny said, sighing with relief.

"Now." Bobby looked at them sternly. "What _was_ really going on?"

* * *

Memory drifted back a little at a time. It didn't always make sense. Didn't always form any kind of coherent picture. But every time he checked with Rusty and he found the truth and his life came together a piece at a time.

Pouring a glass of wine and he remembered the first time he'd met Reuben. Remembered the craps game and the friendly advice, remembered the burning need to pay back the favour and the wild and unlikely few days that had followed. He'd never spent the night in jail before. He remembered and he couldn't stop the smile even if he wanted to, and with Rusty's help he came up with a reason, an excuse for a phone call, and it was just so good to hear Reuben's voice. To know that things were real.

In the shower he remembered three months ago with Livingston, tequila shots, a swarm of bees and a beach hut and he thought that he'd never stop laughing; he stumbled out of the shower, doubled over and helpless, waving off Rusty's bemused concern until he could catch his breath enough to explain.

Listening to Rusty talk on the phone and he remembered Saul and wondered how he could ever have forgotten.

Standing in the queue in the coffee shop and he remembered the first time that Rusty had told him about Fowler and about his childhood. Remembered all the details that Rusty had missed out. Remembered holding Rusty tightly, fighting the need to go out and find and hurt and punish. Wasn't any easier this time round and the rage and the anger had Rusty dragging him out of the public gaze and he paced around their apartment, fury and hatred burning through him and Rusty held him close until he calmed down.

He remembered the good times and he remembered the bad times, joy and pain, and he grasped each fleeting moment and examined it with wonder like he never wanted to let go.

* * *

The first time he remembered his parents it was the middle of the night. Rusty found him, hours later, staring blindly out of the window, glass of whisky in his hand. Wasn't the first one, not by a long way, and he hadn't tasted any of it.

He heard Rusty behind him and he didn't turn round.

"They died," he said quietly, numbly. He'd remembered it before, of course, remembered their death in a nightmare, but now he remembered their lives. He remembered how he'd loved them and how they'd loved him.

Rusty's hand gripped his shoulder tightly.

Twelve years and it felt like he remembered every moment. Silly things. His Dad teaching him to tie his shoelaces, playing dinosaurs with him, buying him ice cream when he fell off his bike. His Mom making him breakfast, helping with his homework, letting him lick the bowl when she baked.

Felt like he'd got them back and lost them all over again.

And he remembered the funeral, remembered the rain and feeling cold and numb, remembered looking up at Uncle Frederick who had barely glanced at him – would barely glance at him for the next four years – and feeling so _alone. _

"D'you think..." He swallowed thickly. "Would they be proud of me?"

"_Yes,_" said Rusty instantly, and there was absolute certainty in his voice, fierce and complete and unshakeable.

Danny took a deep shuddering breath, the relief overwhelming him, and the tears fell.

He turned his head. Kissed Rusty's hand. Let Rusty hold him in silence until the pain faded.

* * *

Weeks went by. And home was nice but Rusty got restless and Danny felt like there were no more memories to find here and sunny climes and azure seas were calling, and they found themselves in a penthouse looking out over the city, enjoying the sunshine and enjoying the room service.

"Sometimes I wonder if I've really remembered everything," Danny said one day, as the breeze swept in the window. He didn't say any more. Didn't need to. He'd lost everything and he had no way of being certain what he'd got back.

"Everything important," Rusty said quietly, and Danny knew he meant every_one_ important. All their friends.

It helped.

It helped more that Rusty was here and would always be here, and anything Danny had forgotten Rusty would remember. He always did.

"You notice that bank out the window?" he asked idly. "Train tunnel goes right under it." They could do something with that.

Rusty smiled and sat up straight. "We'd need to go in on a Sunday," he said thoughtfully. "And there'd need to be – "

" – noise," Danny nodded. "A lot of noise."

He smiled at Rusty and the plan was dancing through his head.

Maybe he remembered everything. Maybe he didn't. But he was with Rusty and there would be new memories. He was sure of that.


End file.
